


Into The Light

by Slow_Burn_Sally



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, First Time, Fluff, Hand Jobs, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining, Pining Sherlock, Slow Burn, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:46:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22099678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slow_Burn_Sally/pseuds/Slow_Burn_Sally
Summary: Sherlock knows that he is not particularly lovable. He has seen this lack of lovableness in the cold eyes of his brother, in the angry eyes of the Scotland Yard detectives and police officers as he ruthlessly deducts uncomfortable, embarrassing, truthful things about their lives as a way to cope with how they stare at him.  As if he were a circus sideshow. That’s it though isn’t it? He feels their anger and their envy and their fear of him, and so he bites back with logic, with brutal honesty. By uncovering things about the people around him that they would rather keep hidden. By telling them truths they didn’t want to know. He can still remember the look on Lestrade’s face on Christmas Eve, hearing that his wife was still having an affair. How casually and coldly Sherlock had let that fact slip from his lips, on such a cheery occasion.He could still hear Molly’s hurt voice.You always say such horrible things. Every time. Always… Always
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 39
Kudos: 311
Collections: Sherlock and John Stories that Ease the Soul





	Into The Light

**Author's Note:**

> I'd never written pining Sherlock before and wanted to try my hand at it. 
> 
> Many many thanks to my lovely beta reader emilycare. She came up with the title and helped me ever so much with vital hints about emotional content and continuity errors. Thank you so much Em!
> 
> As always, kudos and comments are extremely appreciated. I hope you enjoy! <3

Sherlock knows that he is not particularly lovable. He has seen this lack of lovableness in the cold eyes of his brother, in the angry eyes of the Scotland Yard detectives and police officers as he ruthlessly deducts uncomfortable, embarrassing,  _ truthful _ things about their lives as a way to cope with how they stare at him. As if he were a circus sideshow. That’s it though isn’t it? He feels their anger and their envy and their fear of him, and so he bites back with logic, with brutal honesty. By uncovering things about the people around him that they would rather keep hidden. By telling them truths they didn’t want to know. He can still remember the look on Lestrade’s face on Christmas Eve, hearing that his wife was still having an affair. How casually and coldly Sherlock had let that fact slip from his lips, on such a cheery occasion. 

He could still hear Molly’s hurt voice.    
  
_ You always say such horrible things. Every time. Always… Always _

And he did didn’t he? And, if he were perfectly honest with himself, Lestrade and Molly shouldn’t have even been on the list to receive such harsh derision. They were as close to friends as he’d ever had. Yet still he let the swift, exacting machine that was his brain spin out these facts, fit these pieces together, create these pictures of the world. And because he could do this. Because he could deduce from minute details, the size and shape of a realm that almost no one else could ever hope to see. Because of this magical power of precise deduction, people could never relax around him. No one would ever fully trust him. 

Only two people in the entire world (aside from his parents, who actually made  _ him _ feel nervous and uncomfortable) had ever let their guard down around him in his life. 

Mrs. Hudson. 

And John of course. 

Mrs. Hudson treated Sherlock as if he were an errant child she was rather fond of. She tutted over him, made sly remarks, let her eyes dance with mischief when she was impressed by his mind, and let her voice grow sharp with a distinctly parental tone of disapproval when she scolded him for keeping a bag of thumbs in the refrigerator. She treated him like a son, or a grandchild. Or perhaps a nephew. And she cared about him. He could feel it in the way she flitted about him like a nervous bird, picking up his rubbish and cleaning out his refrigerator (finding said bag and screeching at him that  _ “no decent person keeps human body parts next to the yogurt!” _ ). She worried over him when he was ill, or underfed, or hadn’t had enough sleep (which was quite often), and she was always after him to  _ eat a proper breakfast _ . 

Yes, Mrs. Hudson could be trusted. She cared. She could let her guard down around him. Sherlock suspected this was because she’d seen a thing or two in her day. She was at once nervous and worried, while simultaneously unflappable and unshockable. Despite this, she  _ pretended  _ to be shocked, and this was amusing to Sherlock. Anyone with one tenth less resolve and courage would have ended up in the mental hospital long ago from dealing with Sherlock as a tenant all this time, and yet Mrs. Hudson chugged along like a small but determined steam engine in his wake, waving off his harsh criticism and casual slights with a stern “Oh you! Hush up now and finish your tea!”

And then of course there was John. The only other person who saw through Sherlock’s sharp words and brilliant brain to the real, warm human being underneath. The only other person who’d ever taken the full brunt of Sherlock’s razor sharp tongue and had stayed around in the aftermath. Most people simply turned and walked away when Sherlock read them, flayed them open, exposed them as fools. Sherlock peeled away the pretense from wealthy business owners and stuffy heiresses and prickly lorry drivers, pulled away their defenses with his relentless logic and laid them bare for the world (and Scotland Yard) to see. And of course his genius deductions didn’t stop, merely because the person on the receiving end hadn’t committed a crime. He seemed incapable of stemming the cold, thoughtless words that fell from his lips. Words that fell like bombs, destroying the landscape around him as they ripped through the egos and defenses of those whose lives he deduced and reduced. 

He had ripped through John’s ego as well. Many times now. Called him “stupid” and “slow” and “dense” and every other imaginable word one could use to describe the lack of intelligence in a human being. He’d poked a hole in John’s cheerful, buoyant moods and stopped him short with swift contradictions and denials, over and over. Not even really meaning to do so. It was simply second nature to Sherlock now to lash out at those around him who made errors in judgment or said things that were simply  _ incorrect. _ He hated being wrong. And he hated to let half truths, misconceptions or errors go uncorrected. Side effect of being raised by a genius mother with an even more genius, highly competitive brother. 

John would get angry sometimes, but more and more, he simply brushed off the words, as if he somehow knew that there wasn’t any real poison in Sherlock’s bite. Brushed them off until Sherlock no longer wanted to use them, because his words didn’t end up pushing John away, and that… that was something new and unexpected. Eventually, Sherlock’s sharp eye detected that John wasn’t stupid at all. That he was in fact rather intelligent. John  _ saw things _ at the crime scenes they visited, he caught things that other people missed. He also noticed John’s dedication to helping Sherlock with his cases. How swiftly the other man would grab his coat and run after Sherlock when the tall detective left the flat to chase down a lead. Most people found the way Sherlock went after cases a bit morbid, or simply too dangerous to get involved with, but John seemed to love their work. And so, rather quickly, Sherlock had developed a grudging respect for the sturdy, gently sarcastic man with the kind eyes, who’d stepped into Sherlock’s life out of the blue. 

They’d talked… more and more as the months went by. Sherlock was allowed a glimpse into John’s past and his current life. His hopes and dreams. He’d gotten used to the sight of John’s boyish, earnest face. Had gotten to like the flash of mischievous laughter that sparked in John’s gray-blue eyes when Sherlock was being irreverent, or when John was gently mocking him for being stiff and dogmatic. 

On the first night they’d met, John had attempted, rather bluntly to pry into Sherlock’s romantic history. He’d asked questions other people had never dared to ask. Did Sherlock have a girlfriend? A boyfriend? The questions had burned slightly. As if the words, soft and hesitant, leaving John’s mouth had held a super-heated quality. As if they’d been hot coals, crashing against the fragile, pale skin of Sherlock’s ears and face. 

How could John know the depths of frustration and anger and loneliness lying just beneath Sherlock’s chilly exterior. He clearly couldn’t detect their depths, nor Sherlock’s discomfort with those feelings, if he was asking questions such as these.

Sherlock’s replies had been short and to the point. Girlfriends weren’t really his  _ area _ . Boyfriends? How could Sherlock express all those long years of meeting a handsome boy in school, of watching the way Sherlock’s unfeeling words cut at that boy, made him turn away. Over and over. And none of them were even worth the pain their rejection caused Sherlock. They were handsome on the surface. Or they were kind (at first). Or they were excellent students with fine brains, but often they had no imagination. They always ended up seeming shallow and capricious to Sherlock, who wasn’t yet able to understand in the early years that turning away from someone like himself was an act of self preservation, rather than one of capriciousness. But still, these men he’d occasionally fancied were pale shadows in his mind’s eye. Nothing worth crying into one’s pillow over.

Sherlock never felt himself drawn to straight men. His powers of deduction were strong in the area of sexual orientation, having had to do many things to hide his own for decades now, he could recognize the signs easily in another. But the boys (in primary school) and later, the men (at university) that he developed crushes on, all seemed, upon further inspection, to be an uninspired mix of dull and soft. They expected Sherlock to say frilly things. Things he didn’t mean. Also, they’d been very handsy with him on the very few occasions that things had progressed to a bedroom scenario. Pawing at him over his pants and biting his neck in a way that might have been arousing if they’d given Sherlock the time to grow accustomed to the sudden changes in physical dynamics. Sherlock liked to move slowly. It took him quite a while to work himself up to the trust that would allow him to be consumed with the kind frenzied lust these men wanted to share with him. 

And so, after a few fumbling encounters and a few disappointing conversations that usually ended in a young man being quite angry with Sherlock and leaving in a hurry, Sherlock had decided that “dating” (such a silly, toothless word for it) was not for him. 

Trust was essential to him in any relationship. He’d grown up with a conniving brother who mocked him and manipulated him by turns. And then in school, he’d been subjected to much bullying. Until of course, he’d honed his sharp tongue to a cutting edge and had used it to slash back at the bullies. Once he did that, no one went near him. No one wanted to be friends with a “freak” who could tell people’s fortunes at a glance. Especially one who was cold and cruel with his deductions. He was never invited to any parties. Never went to any dances. He had no school chums, outside of some extended discussions with his professors. And even they drew back from him eventually, when he casually deduced something about them that they hadn’t wanted anyone, least of all a cocky young student, to deduce. 

By the time he’d met John, Sherlock hadn’t thought that loving anyone, beyond the fondness he felt for Mrs. Hudson or the obligatory love he felt for his parents, was possible. And so he’d been taken completely by surprise upon the realization that he was falling for John. It had happened slowly. Or perhaps it had happened swiftly, but in a way that was beneath even his ability to detect at first. John’s presence in his life had seemed inconsequential at the very beginning. He noticed that John was quite handsome, but beyond that, he was a means to an end. Sherlock had been glad to have a flatmate. Someone who might even stick around for a while, and help with the rent, rather than leaving in a huff the first time they encountered a glimmer of Sherlock’s real personality, and John seemed to fit that bill. 

Within several minutes of meeting John however, Sherlock had also deduced quite a few things about him that were surprising. That despite the trauma’s John had experienced in the war, and despite the fact that he was obviously struggling with some insomnia and PTSD symptoms from said trauma, that he also missed the adrenaline of the battlefield. That he in fact longed for a return to danger and chaos. Maybe as a way to work through some of that trauma. He learned that to a degree, it was the quietness and safety of John’s life when he’d met Sherlock that made the nightmares worse.  _ How interesting _ . It took a lot to interest Sherlock these days. And then, there was the fact that John had spent at least twenty minutes in Sherlock’s company, and had still agreed to move in. So the man was highly resilient to boot.  _ Quite unusual. _

The first time John had joined Sherlock on a case, Sherlock had been shocked to see the way John’s eyes had lit up with expectation and barely hidden delight. How flushed his face had gotten and how his eyes had gone sparkly after they’d ran through the streets of London, chasing after a mysterious man in a taxi cab. John had swiftly abandoned his psychosomatic leg pain in his rush to join Sherlock in his work, and Sherlock  _ noticed _ this. Noticed it the way he noticed how John’s medical skills had stayed sharp. Noticed it in the way he noticed that although a ghost of pain and annoyance would flit across John’s features when Sherlock casually insulted him, that he just as quickly forgave Sherlock and continued with the conversation. No one.  _ No one  _ in his entire life had been able to brush off Sherlock’s coldness. No one had patiently waited outside the thick walls Sherlock had built to protect himself and asked repeatedly, yet gently to be let in the way John had. 

At first, Sherlock hadn’t known how to react. He was impressed by his new flatmate’s medical acumen and his willingness to help with Sherlock’s cases. He was reassured by the way John seemed not to be overly put off by Sherlock’s sardonic wit or sarcastic barbs. When a month had passed, and John was still there, still living in the flat, having tea, eating breakfast, helping him with cases, Sherlock had dared to relax a bit. Perhaps this was another person who wouldn’t turn away when they’d had enough of Sherlock’s real self? 

Sherlock didn’t even dare to hope that this was the case, but so far, John had stayed the course of their friendship and working relationship. He resolutely stayed by Sherlock’s side, even through the onslaught of criticisms and pointless requests (asking John to come across town only to fish Sherlock’s mobile phone out of Sherlock’s jacket pocket, draped across the back of a chair, several feet from where Sherlock lay on the sofa, leapt to mind).

Very early on, he knew that he was attracted to John, and it was an attraction that built slowly yet inexorably towards deeper feelings than simple sexual desire. The shorter, more compact man had a boyish charm and a warm sense of humor that Sherlock found enjoyable to be around. And there was no denying that he was quite handsome. John’s stocky body, his strong shoulders and well muscled legs, the product of years of rugby and months of basic training in the military did not escape Sherlock’s notice, though he’d never let John catch him looking. His brilliant smile, and his inquisitive eyes, that shifted color depending on the light in the room, or the angle of the sun, had an effect on Sherlock that was undeniable. An effect that Sherlock kept carefully hidden at all times. John must never know that Sherlock thought absently about running his fingers through John’s short, salt and pepper hair. That he thought less absently and more relentlessly as weeks turned to months, of spreading his hands across John’s shoulders, of wrapping his arms around John’s waist from behind and pressing warm kisses to the back of John’s neck. 

The first of these thoughts had risen to the surface of Sherlock’s conscious mind one random Sunday morning, a few weeks after John had moved in. John was in the kitchen, making tea in a robe and t-shirt and a pair of pyjama bottoms, looking rumpled and sleepy. His head was bent over the filling of the kettle, exposing the pale back of his neck to Sherlock’s suddenly very hungry eyes, and the consulting detective had felt the strongest urge to place his lips, right there, against that soft skin, to breath in John’s smell. He’d nearly stumbled backwards at the urge to do so, self consciously pulling his own dressing gown tighter around him, as if in defense against such vulnerable urges. He knew then that there was a strong pull he felt for the shorter, older man. Even if it took a little while longer to recognize the exact flavor, size and shape of those desires.

Sherlock had been dismayed to realize that these thoughts about John were not easily banished. That they wouldn’t simply go away because Sherlock willed them to. And in the beginning, he  _ did _ will them to disappear. He didn’t have time or energy for an infatuation at this point in his life. Especially an infatuation with his flatmate. A straight man. Well… ostensibly straight. There were subtle clues that John might have been with men in the past. His porn search history for one, (Yes, Sherlock knew he shouldn’t snoop, but he  _ was _ a detective after all. He simply had to find out if his flatmate were some sort of pervert hadn’t he?) which involved far too many searches for terms like  _ guy on guy on girl _ and  _ bisexual gang bang _ , for John to be strictly straight. Despite the fact that John only ever went on dates with women, Sherlock would not have been surprised to hear that he’d experimented with other man when he was younger, or in secret. At the very least, John wanked to images of men having sex with each other, and this was a pretty clear signal to Sherlock that John was likely bisexual. 

Another compelling indicator that John may not have been one hundred percent hetero was simply the way he behaved around Sherlock. The sustained eye contact. The way John’s eyes would flit down to rest on Sherlock’s mouth from time to time. The awkwardness between them whenever Sherlock encountered John in the short hallway between their rooms and their bodies were in somewhat close proximity to one another. At first Sherlock had thought it was simple nervousness. The mild social anxiety that comes with sharing a small-ish space with a new person. But as months went by and they worked together, drank tea (and sometimes whiskey) together, shared a kitchen and a lavatory, that nervousness should have burned off, and it simply had not. 

Regardless, just because John had a likely history with touching or wanting to touch men, that didn’t mean he was open to being touched by Sherlock. And Sherlock never touched John. Not more than was necessary. To be precise, he never touched John  _ affectionately _ . He’d tackled John to the ground to protect him from a bullet. He’d grabbed John’s hand to pull him out of a steep pit in the woods the ex-army doctor had tumbled into when they’d been hot on the trail of a murderer last month. He’d brushed his fingers, barely brushed them really, against John’s as he’d passed him the sugar for his tea or a document connected to a case… But he never touched John casually. There were no claps on the back or squeezes to the shoulder that he’d seen other men give each other to show affection. What little affection straight men were allowed anyway. 

And so, even though Sherlock _ itched _ to touch John, he held back. And John kept his distance as well. They laughed together and talked long into the night. They pored over evidence together, and ran down back streets together, and visited Molly in the morgue together. At this point, over a year since John had moved in, they did virtually everything together. John had easily and comfortably begun referring to Sherlock as his “friend”, and Sherlock hadn’t corrected him. No one had called him “friend” since primary school. Sherlock  _ didn’t have friends _ , and yet there was John, telling him “I’m your friend. That’s what friends do.” 

Friends care for each other. Friends protect one another. Friends are the people you turn to when you’re lost or confused or alone. John was his  _ friend. _

He hadn’t realized how deeply in love he’d fallen until a completely average and uneventful winter evening as the two of them had been ensconced as usual in their respective armchairs. Sherlock had been typing away at his laptop, scrolling through multiple websites on multiple open browsers with lightning speed, a cup of forgotten, room temperature tea sitting at his elbow. John had been reading a book. Some silly spy novel. John’s reading list was uninspired and dull, and yet, he himself was vivacious and charming and bright. It boggled the mind. 

“Ha!” John had let out a small, cheerful bark of a laugh at something he’d been reading. 

“What’s so funny?” Sherlock replied.

“It’s nothing… it’s only that after working with you for a while, I don’t think these books are quite up to snuff any longer. They seem frightfully dull by comparison.” 

Sherlock had raised his eyes from his computer screen in time to see John raising his eyes from the pages of his book and their gazes had locked for a moment. Sherlock had seen a look of such uncomplicated affection sparkling in John’s eyes, such unguarded joy painted across his boyish features, and his breath had caught in his throat. 

_ Oh _ he thought with a start.  _ Oh. I love him don’t I? _

The realization had made his cheeks burn and he’d quickly flitted his gaze away from John’s beautiful face and back to the screen of his laptop, but the words and images on the screen seemed to blur and shift and lose focus.  _ I’m in love with him. I love him.  _ Once the thought finally surfaced and made itself known to Sherlock’s conscious mind, it was impossible to shove it back down again. It rang like a bell inside Sherlock’s brain and reverberated through every cell in his body.  _ I. Love. Him. _

Sherlock wasn’t sure what this meant, only that he’d rather die than let John know that he harbored such weak, shivery, burning feelings inside his gut and heart and mind for the simple man across from him. Sherlock was fairly certain he’d never been in love before. There had been infatuations, yes. Boys, and later as he grew older, men whom he’d fancied physically, or admired intellectually, or both, but it was nothing like this. He could see himself gladly taking a bullet to protect John. The thought of anything bad happening to John made Sherlock’s insides turn to ice. 

_ Now why did my mind go there? _ He wondered. Most people, upon realizing that they were in love with someone skipped straightway to fantasies of touching them, kissing them, making love to them. Sherlock instead had immediately pictured what life would be without John, or what would happen if John were hurt. 

This was probably because most people were romantic idiots, and Sherlock dealt with the finding and arresting of thieves, embezzlers and serial murderers for a living. Danger lurked around every corner, and before, he’d had no reason to fear it. He didn’t fear death himself, and he was fairly certain he could keep Mrs. Hudson safe from harm, but John? If John were to be harmed due to the work they did together, well… Sherlock wouldn’t recover from that. 

And of course, after the initial thrill of fear over John’s safety, Sherlock  _ did _ start fantasizing about touching John in all those silly romantic ways. The thoughts were like the predictable symptoms of a disease, advancing through his body and wreaking havoc in their wake. He supposed it was due to the chemicals coursing through his brain… Chemicals that made fools of all human beings who allowed romantic sentiment and  _ caring _ to cloud their logic. And cloud his logic it did. Despite the fact that there was no solid, quantifiable reason why, It wasn’t long before Sherlock would catch himself in daydreams of kissing John when he should have been researching a case. 

He’d never been much of a masturbator. Only taking care of himself as it were when his body yelled at him to do something about persistent erections that kept him awake at night and distracted him from his work. He was a young man still, and he had physical urges, and so he’d have a quick, efficient wank now and then to redirect himself towards the true and important matters at hand. (Sherlock never saw the needs of his own body as “true and important matters.”)

But now… now, everything was different. Persistent images of John’s face, his smile, his hands and shoulders, that peek of pale skin dusted with light brown hair just below the edge of John’s t-shirt and above his pyjama bottoms when he stretched his arms over his head in the morning… these thoughts invaded Sherlock’s mind and forced his hand as it were to bring himself to some of the most powerful orgasms he’d ever experienced in his life. Afterwards, he’d lay in his bed, naked and panting, belly covered with a wet mess, feeling flushed and stunned and loose. Stunned by the strength of these feelings he’d thought himself completely immune to. 

It was never supposed to be like this. He had planned to spend the rest of his days solving cases, learning and growing in his deductive skills and basically ignoring his body in favor of obtaining more useful information and honing the abilities of his brain. Sentiment. Caring. Love were not emotions he ever thought he’d be forced to deal with on such a grand scale. He hadn’t planned on being a shaking, gasping mess every other night as images of John naked and in his arms danced before his closed eyes, and he fucked his fist like a randy teenager. It was indecent. It was embarrassing. It was  _ searing bloody hot _ . 

In the bright light of day, Sherlock carefully schooled his features into a pleasant yet detached mask of casual friendship. Simultaneously, he felt himself draw back on the derisive comments and sharp words towards John, and felt himself softening and warming in his behavior towards the shorter man. It was inevitable. He couldn’t keep his love under wraps completely and indefinitely. Luckily, John apparently saw this softening as nothing more than the burgeoning of a new friendship, and so Sherlock could stay under the radar in regards to his feelings for his flatmate. 

  
  
  


__________________________________________________________

  
  


They’d been working on a case recently. An almost open and shut situation, which Sherlock was swiftly closing in on the answer to which would put several people in prison for many years. He was clacking away on his laptop, eyes intent on the search results on his screen when John had closed his own laptop and asked him a question that stopped his fingers mid key-stroke.

“Sherlock. You said you weren’t interested in dating anyone. Back when we met. Is that still the… erm… situation?”

Sherlock nearly dropped his computer to the floor in his surprise. “What do you mean?” He asked, stalling for time as his mind raced to find a response that wouldn’t flay him open like one of the corpses in Molly’s morgue. 

“Well, what I mean is that.. I suppose what I wanted to know was.. Are you still ‘married to your work’ as it were? Have you given any thought to intimate relationships?”

“No.” Sherlock lied easily. “Not at all. Now if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to get back to my work.”

“Alright. Fine.” John seemed adequately put off. But a mere three minutes and fourteen seconds later, he spoke again, again jarring Sherlock’s now admittedly fractured attention away from his work. 

“Only…” John began. “I was curious as to if you’ve ever been in that type of relationship.” 

“What type of relationship?” Sherlock was being purposefully obtuse, only because the conversation was making him acutely uncomfortable. 

“Don’t be dense Sherlock. A  _ romantic _ relationship. You know the kind. Hand holding and kissing and cuddling and all that.”

“John,” Sherlock raised his eyes to meet John’s and injected as much sarcastic derision as was humanly possible into his next words. “You seem to know me quite well at this point. Do I  _ look _ like the type of person who enjoys that sort of thing?”

A shadow of something negative flitted across John’s face, but before Sherlock could categorize it, the other man was speaking again. “So you’ve never had a… partner then?”

“No.” Sherlock pointedly looked back down at his laptop, which might have been displaying ancient Aramaic for all that he was easily able to focus on the words spreading across the screen. “I have not.” he said simply, hoping this would end John’s line of inquiry. 

It didn’t.

“Are you… a virgin then?” John asked, having the decency to sound a little uncomfortable with the question, yet not uncomfortable enough to avoid asking it, Sherlock noted irritably. 

“Basically,” Sherlock replied.

“Basically?” John was not giving up. Sherlock’s grip on his laptop turned white knuckled and yet he still kept his eyes trained on the screen, unable to look at John’s open and inquisitive face. “Yes, John. Basically. I’ve had a few… experiences. But none of them were ever that involved. So yes. One could say, if one were intent on rudely prying into my personal life, that I am a virgin.”

He expected his prickly response to put John off, but it did not. The man seemed determined to have this highly embarrassing conversation, come hell or high water. 

“Do you want a partner then? Ever thought about it?” John persisted. 

“Not necessary,” Sherlock snapped back. “I have my work and Mrs. Hudson, and now I have you don’t I?” He stopped himself short, suddenly realizing what he’d just said.  _ I don’t need a partner, because I have you _ . He’d meant it to come out differently. To say that he had company. That he had friendship. Not simply to say  _ I have you. _

“What do you mean, you have me, Sherlock.” John was gazing steadily at him. Sherlock could feel the other man’s eyes like a physical sensation. He could also feel the tension radiating suddenly, from the man in the armchair across from him. He’d been casual and relaxed before Sherlock had blurted out his last words, and now, he was coiled tight in what Sherlock called  _ military mode _ . Hypervigilant and waiting. 

“I didn’t mean anything.” Sherlock waffled “Nothing at all. Only that with companionship… your companionship, I don’t really feel that I need a romantic partner.”  _ Oh, that was even worse _ , his sardonic mind supplied unhelpfully. 

“But Sherlock. We’re not a couple. We’re not together. I don’t give you the things most people need in a romantic partner.”

Sherlock stayed silent, looking down at his laptop, his cheeks burning with what was probably a very obvious blush. John refrained from speaking as well. The silence stretched out uncomfortably for ten endless-seeming seconds. John must have realized that he’d dug himself in a bit too deep in this conversation, and yet, for some frustrating reason, he persisted in speaking. 

“I just wondered… if you had changed your mind from that first night we met. If you’d feel more open to… looking for someone. Letting someone in.” John’s voice was soft and gentle. As if he were speaking to a spooked animal. 

“I haven’t.” Sherlock’s reply was a bit too sharp, and he winced inwardly at the finality of those two words. Especially when he longed to tell John that yes, he  _ had _ felt more open to letting someone in. And that someone was unequivocally John. But how was he to say such a thing? So blatantly. It would leave him open to the worst kind of rejection. Sherlock hadn’t opened the door to his heart since he was a little boy. He couldn’t bear the thought of swinging that portal wide open, only to have John refuse to cross the threshold. Or worse, to have John slam that door shut with a harsh rejection. 

“Alright then. No need to panic. I was just curious.” John finally relented. He put aside his laptop and rose to his feet. “It’s time I went to bed.” He punctuated the words with a long stretch, again exposing that stripe of delectable looking skin above his waistband and below the edge of his jumper, and Sherlock looked swiftly away, back down at the screen of his computer. 

“Fine. I’ll see you tomorrow”. 

That night, Sherlock couldn’t help but lose himself in thoughts of what would have happened had John pushed the subject further. If Sherlock himself had not shut down his line of inquiry. 

_ We’re not a couple Sherlock. I can’t give you all the things that a partner could give you… But … I want to.  _ The John in his mind leaned forward in his chair and fixed Sherlock with that earnest, open look that made Sherlock’s heart melt. 

_ I want to give you those things. I’ve been thinking about it for a long time.  _

Sherlock was swiftly growing hard beneath the sheets but he let the fantasy play out a bit further before he started touching himself. He imagined the way John would approach him. 

_ Would you like it if I kissed you? _ He’d ask, breathless. And Sherlock would nod, would simply nod, being unable to speak. 

John would get up from his chair and end up kneeling between Sherlock’s legs on the floor. Sherlock would lean forward and their lips would meet, and it would feel so soft and so right. John would wrap his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders and then, he would pull John into his lap. He would feel the weight of John’s buttocks and the backs of his thighs pressing down into Sherlock’s stiff erection through both layers of their clothing. 

Sherlock whined a bit in the back of his throat and thrust his hips up, rubbing his hard cock against the barely there pressure of the sheets on top of him, still not touching himself. He lost himself in thoughts of the wet, slick feel of John’s mouth against his own. Knowing the other man would taste of tea, that he’d smell of cheap deodorant and sensible, masculine cologne. Imagining the feel of John’s compact, muscular body resting in Sherlock’s long arms. The weight of John side pressed against his chest. He sighed at the thought of finally getting the other man into his arms and against his lips and reached down to palm himself over the bedsheets. 

The pressure of his own hand caused sparks to explode through his lower belly. He knew he’d come quickly if he started stroking himself, and so he held off, let his mind play with the images of John kissing him, John perhaps turning to straddle him in the armchair (physics and limited space be damned). He imagined pulling John’s jumper and t-shirt over his head and splaying reverent hands over the soft hair and firm muscle of the smaller man’s chest, and a moan escaped his lips. 

No longer able to resist touching himself, Sherlock pushed the sheets away so as not to ruin them, took himself in hand and began stroking. Imagining that John was leaning back in his lap to unzip him, reaching inside Sherlock’s trousers and nudging aside Sherlock’s underwear to take him in hand in his fantasy. That it was John’s hand on his aching cock. John stroking him and looking at him intently with those lovely, kind eyes of his. After only a few stiff pulls to his cock, Sherlock came hard, jerking his hips up into his tight fist and slapping a hand hastily over his mouth to stifle the sharp cry he felt rising up inside him as he convulsed in pleasure. The waves of his orgasm pulsed through him for several seconds, and he bit down on his hand, groaning low in the back of his throat as he rode it out. 

Afterward, he cleaned himself up using a fistful of tissues and pulling the sheets back up around him, rolled onto his side and into a fetal position, hugging himself. He had lied to John tonight. He’d told his flatmate that he didn’t want a partner. That he didn’t need one. The truth was though, that he needed a partner quite badly. He needed  _ John _ . More than he ever thought he would when they’d first met. He burned for John. He longed for John. These sensations were new and borderline unpleasant in their newness, and in how they left him feeling exposed and vulnerable. 

He knew John was a kind man. A good man. He’d never knowingly hurt Sherlock. But… he could unknowingly do it. He could hurt Sherlock by not loving him back in the same way. And that wouldn’t be John’s fault would it? He couldn’t help it if he weren’t attracted to Sherlock  _ like that _ . 

The thing that gave Sherlock hope though, was that he was fairly certain that there was  _ something _ between them. John’s physical reactions to Sherlock were in line with those of a person who felt attraction. His nervousness that hadn’t quite burned off through the warmth of familiarity. His eyes when they flicked down to Sherlock’s mouth as he spoke. Little tells. Little signs, that Sherlock collected in a corner of his mind palace, kept tucked away in a little folder marked  _ John might want me back. _

Tonight, John had purposefully broached the subject of Sherlock’s love life for the second time since meeting him. Sherlock cautiously let himself believe that these awkward, probing conversations were stepping stones on the way to a confession, or an invitation of some sort. That John was working himself up to making a pass at Sherlock. And if that were the case, then Sherlock would gladly accept. But he wouldn’t act first. He’d never act first. He’d pushed too many people away, had lost too many connections in his life to take that sort of risk. 

Unless… There were ways that Sherlock could make it clear to John that he would be  _ welcome _ to approach. Sherlock couldn’t very well blatantly tell John how he felt, but there were certain things he could do to provide John with an opening… Then and there, still floating in the warm haze of post orgasmic bliss, Sherlock decided to leave a trail of breadcrumbs to the door of his heart. To light up the runway a bit as it were. That way, he could test John’s motives and ease him into a closer connection, all while providing himself with plausible deniability if he’d read John wrong. It couldn’t hurt could it? 

Sherlock grinned to himself in the darkness of his bedroom. At last, he had a plan. He liked plans. He liked experiments. This would be both. He only hoped the outcome would involve him getting closer to John. 

___________________________

The next day, John was up and gone to the clinic before Sherlock had even rolled out of bed. This was fine. Sherlock had all day to devise ways in which to welcome John to get closer. He texted Lestrade the clues he’d found that would close their current case and then lay down on the sofa, hands pressed together in prayer formation under his chin. He closed his eyes and pictured the types of behaviors that could easily be construed as warm and receptive, yet without tipping over into flirtation. It was a fine line to walk, but Sherlock thought he could manage it. Almost thirty years of observing human behavior must count for something, mustn’t it? 

Eventually, he got up in search of something to eat and a proper cuppa, and then returned to meditating on the problem at hand. 

By the time John returned to the flat at five forty eight in the evening (tube must have had a delay as he usually arrived at five thirty six), Sherlock was fairly certain his experiment was a sound one. He decided to start with a little casual touching and see how that went over. John prattled on about his day, about frustrating patients and the delay in the tube (he knew it!) while he went about throwing together a hasty dinner for them both of cold sandwiches and leftover chips from last night’s take out. 

When he passed a plate to Sherlock, Sherlock smiled warmly at him and reached up to squeeze John’s shoulder. “Thank you, John.” 

John froze. Just for a moment, before recovering from the obvious surprise he felt at Sherlock’s touch to his shoulder. “Yeah,” he said, sounding taken aback. “Yeah… no problem. You’re welcome.” Sherlock smiled inwardly at how clearly affected John was by one simple touch. He wondered why he hadn’t initiated such touching before now. 

They ate while chatting companionably about the case they’d just solved, and about John’s day. Afterwards, John went off to take a quick shower, to wash the stink of disinfectant and the smell of the office off of him, and Sherlock settled into his normal spot with his laptop. He looked up when John returned, hair mussed and still damp, wearing a tshirt and his striped pyjama bottoms and looking like an adorably disheveled boy in a way that made Sherlock’s heart grow soft and fluttery inside his chest. 

“See anything interesting?” John asked, clearly referring to Sherlock’s scrutiny of his computer screen, but Sherlock decided to parlay his question into providing yet another opening for John to approach. 

“Yes,” he replied, but kept his eyes trained on John’s face as he said it. Then he let his eyes flick slowly down and up John’s body as the other man took a seat in the armchair opposite Sherlock. “Yes I do,” he repeated, letting his voice drop into a lower register. “Very interesting.”

“Ooh..kaay”, John pulled the two syllables out long, in a clear indication that he was confused by Sherlock’s behavior. This was fine. Sherlock wanted him confused. Confused and off balance. That’s when people showed you their true motives. When they were confronted with something unexpected. Sherlock himself had used this tactic to surprise the truth out of many a suspect. It could easily be applied to this situation as well. 

“Well, I won’t distract you from your work Sherlock,” John continued. “I’ve got some papers to fill out for the clinic, so I’ll just…” he trailed off, clearly still a little unsettled by Sherlock’s blatant once over of his body. 

  
“Alright John. I won’t disturb you. It’s nice that you’re here though. I was lonely today,” Sherlock ventured, keeping a watchful eye on John’s face as he did so. 

“Really? I thought you never got lonely.” John had taken out the papers he wanted to work on, but kept them grasped in one hand, the other hand frozen in the act of finding a pen on his chair-side table his eyes on Sherlock’s, clearly curious and expectant. Waiting for Sherlock to elaborate.

“I do sometimes,” Sherlock replied. “When you’re gone during the day. Or out for the night.” He was making it quite clear that it was  _ John _ he missed.  _ John’s _ absence that was keenly felt. Not just anyone. 

“What’s gotten into you tonight Sherlock? Have you been drinking?” John’s shocked expression at Sherlock’s words… his eyebrows creeping up his forehead at the sound of Sherlock’s admission of missing John, was ample evidence that Sherlock needed to be a bit more consistent with his invitations for intimacy. Perhaps he’d been too standoffish these past long months? If John was so shocked by a simple statement that he missed his friend, Sherlock must have been keeping a tight lid on his affections indeed.

“Not a drop. I simply missed you today. That’s all.” Sherlock returned to looking down at his laptop screen. That was enough for now. Didn’t want to push too far did he?

“Well, that’s nice to hear Sherlock” John’s voice was equal parts surprise and warmth. The warmth hit Sherlock behind his solar plexus, where he felt an answering heat pooling around his heart. “Aren’t you the softie today”. 

“Shut up,” Sherlock remarked conversationally. He could only be so obvious before John started to suspect something was up. 

They both read and worked in silence for several minutes before John looked back up from his papers. “Did you talk to Lestrade about that case?” he asked. Reaching out. Making small talk. Sherlock grinned inwardly. 

“Texted him. Not even worth a phone call,” he said back, affecting an absentminded tone that was far from what he was actually feeling. 

“Huh,” mumbled John, returning to his papers. “You looking for a new one?” A new case of course is what he meant. 

“Yes, but not coming up with much. You want a drink?” he asked getting up to go fetch himself a glass of wine. John nodded, and so Sherlock went to the kitchen and poured them both a glass of the passable red they’d opened two nights ago. He made sure to cover as much of the surface of the glass as possible with his long fingers when he handed it back to John, ensuring that the other man’s fingers would brush his as he took the glass from Sherlock. It had the desired affect. John looked up into Sherlock’s face with surprise painted across his features. Sherlock had been almost rigorously dedicated to avoiding touch for the entire time they’d lived together, and here he was, welcoming it. Doling it out. The other man must have been confused. 

“Thanks,” John mumbled, before taking a sip and putting the glass down on his side table. 

The two men settled back into their respective tasks. Sherlock flitted from news source to news source, looking for evidence of a new case that the Yard would likely contact him about soon. He prayed for something interesting. Not just the usual fare of jealous husbands and money hungry wives and break ins gone wrong. Something exciting. Something to take his mind off the way John’s adam's apple bobbed temptingly in his throat when he took a swallow of wine. Nothing matching this description had surfaced after half an hour of searching, and so Sherlock decided to go back to his experiment of gently letting John know he was free to approach Sherlock romantically. 

“Been on any dates lately?” He asked, knowing that John had not. His last date had been precisely fifteen days ago, with a woman who hadn’t even kissed him goodnight. Sherlock could tell by the look on John’s face when he arrived home from dates whether he’d gotten a kiss or not. There was a certain open happiness in John’s features that broadcast his romantic triumphs far louder than simple words ever could. And John’s face had been a bit closed off when he’d come home from his date with Suzanne… or was it Emily? It was hard to keep the names straight sometimes. 

“Nope. No luck.” John seemed glad for the intrusion into his likely very dull office paperwork, and he looked up from it with a half smile on his face. “There’s a new receptionist at the office who’s very pretty. Though, I’m not sure It’d be appropriate to ask her out.”

“It wouldn’t,” Sherlock snapped, hating the flash of jealousy that shot through his chest and made his scalp itch at hearing that John was attracted to someone else. “Very inappropriate,” he added for good measure. 

“Oh, like you’d know anything about social propriety.” John shot back. “You told our last client that her skin condition would keep her single for the rest of her life, and she’d just lost her husband to a bullet in the chest a mere two days before that.” 

“Yes” Sherlock replied, “But you’ll notice that I didn’t ask her on a date” 

“Fair point,” John relented, smiling his small, lopsided smile that only made an appearance when he was not-so-secretly amused by Sherlock’s irreverence. “Regardless, no. I haven’t been on any dates lately.”

“I’ve been wondering something John. Perhaps you can help illuminate something for me,” Sherlock ventured, inwardly bracing himself for what he was about to ask. 

“Sure. What’s up?” John asked.

“Are you attracted to men?” There. Sherlock had said it out loud. A simple question, between friends. Nothing terribly untoward. 

John’s mouth fell open in surprise and he swallowed hard, his throat working in a way that made Sherlock fight urges to lunge forward and press his mouth against it. Instead, he silently waited for John to respond. His pulse was pounding in his ears, as the seconds of silence drew out in the wake of his question. 

“Well…” John began, voice sounding strained. “Well, yes. To be honest. I am. Why? Is it obvious?”

“Only if one were to look at your porn search history,” Sherlock admitted. He watched as John’s face went beet red, and John’s mouth worked open and shut a few times in shock. 

“Sherlock! That’s an invasion of my privacy! How could yo-”

“Come on John. Surely you know me well enough by now to know that other people’s personal details are always subject to investigation, if I’m given half a chance.” 

“Sherlock. I keep my laptop password protected.”

“Hardly,” Sherlock replied. John spluttered in outrage. 

“How could you… How did you… Sherlock!” John’s brows were knit together in the way they always were when something Sherlock did or said truly upset him. Which was rare. Relatively rare anyway. “That was my private property!”

“Yes, but you left it in the flat and your password was childishly easy to guess. You should take better care of the things you wish to keep secret John.”

John seemed to deflate upon hearing this. Perhaps he simply lacked the energy to be angry at Sherlock for something so clearly expected of his infuriating flatmate. Sherlock watched as John took a deep, cleansing breath and his face changed back to it’s usual, pale color. “For your information,” he said, voice with that extra calm tone it took on when he was actively trying not to yell at Sherlock, “despite the fact that that you  _ deduced _ as much from  _ hacking _ your way into my  _ personal computer _ , I  _ am _ attracted to men Sherlock. This is a fact that I haven’t brought up to you, or to anyone really because It’s my own, private business. But since you’ve forced the issue as it were, yes. I am bisexual.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock replied, barely faking surprise at what he’d already mostly figured out months ago. “And why don’t you date men?” he asked, keeping his voice as calm as possible. 

John sighed and scrubbed his hand through his short hair, disheveling it in a way Sherlock found highly endearing. “I dunno really,” He replied thoughtfully. “It’s just easier to date women? And I’m very attracted to women. That… and I just never… never found a man that piqued my interest enough to face the biphobia and the questions and the shifting around of my life it would take to come out of the closet and openly date people of the same gender. There’s that.” 

Sherlock felt his heart sink at the words “never found a man that piqued my interest.” So there it was. Plain and simple. John wasn’t interested after all. The tension between them was probably just caused by John’s internalized homophobia, or by the simple fact that they were both men, living in a close situation with one another. Sherlock felt his stomach clench with dread over the prospect that John would truly never return his feelings. He carefully kept this from reflecting on his face by maintaining the casual, disaffected facade he usually employed to hide difficult emotions. 

“Now that you’ve pushed me to come out to you, I think it’s only fair that you answer the same question Sherlock,” John said, his voice shaking Sherlock out of his anguished internal dialogue. “Are you attracted to men?”

Now it was Sherlock’s turn to splutter a bit. He should have seen this coming, but he was too caught up in what John would say to foresee the question being turned around and used on him in return. “Yes”. He responded truthfully, probably only because he lacked the time and wherewithal to come up with a convincing lie. “Yes I am, if you must know.”

“Oh,” John sounded genuinely surprised. “I thought you might be asexual.”

“Might as well be for how much sex I have,” Sherlock replied wryly. “Which is none”. 

They stared at each other for a minute. Sherlock’s inner world was silently in turmoil. This was quite a lot of sharing about very personal things, and he wasn’t used to it… all at once like this. He and John had teased out facts about each other’s inner thoughts and feelings slowly, over the course of months. This open sharing of sexual preferences was new, and unsettling. 

“You certainly seem to wank a lot,” John said, his voice holding a hint of gentle mocking. Sherlock felt his face flush with heat. “I mean. I’ve heard you. These walls are thinner than you’d think.” John’s chin was defiant. His eyes were boldly holding Sherlock’s, and Sherlock suddenly knew the other man was getting back at him, giving him a taste of his own medicine for the snooping he’d done in John’s laptop. 

“Yes, well. I have a body, just like everyone else,” Sherlock said lamely. He was sure his face must be suffused with color from the burning feeling spreading across his cheeks and down the length of his neck. His heart was pounding in his chest as he stared back at John. 

“Why haven’t  _ you _ ever dated men?” John asked. Determined, it seemed to rake Sherlock across the coals, just as Sherlock had done to him moments ago. 

“For the same reason really.” Sherlock replied, trying to sound unphased. “I haven’t met a man who felt right for me.”

“Are you interested in women?” John asked, because why not hammer in the final nail on the lid of the coffin of Sherlock’s complete social embarrassment.

“No. Not as such” Sherlock replied, feeling as if this response gave away something vital that he’d been holding onto to protect himself from exposure. Admitting that he only liked men, and yet hadn’t developed a relationship with any of them for the entirety of his life was more telling than John’s having desires for men but sticking with a long dating history of women. 

“Well then,” John said, his voice growing deeper and huskier in a way that caused little sparks to go off inside Sherlock’s belly. “Looks like neither of us has met the right man.” There was something behind his words, a velvety tone to his voice that Sherlock wasn’t sure he’d heard before, an undercurrent that made hope leap inside his chest. Was John  _ flirting _ with him?

“Yes,” he replied, feeling suddenly that it was hard to catch his breath. “It seems so.” 

Silence stretched out again between them. John kept his eyes trained on Sherlock’s face, as if looking for evidence, searching for a clue. Sherlock knew that look well. He kept looking at John too, his eyes flicking from John’s wide, blue-gray gaze to his soft mouth, then back to his eyes. Something was happening. Something was shifting between them. 

“Well,” John said, breaking the silence at last, a small smile playing about his mouth “I think it’s time I went to bed.” He was breathing harder, as was Sherlock, and the tone of his voice was drenched in an invitation that was hard to ignore. “What about you?” John asked, shifting position in his armchair and leaning towards Sherlock, his eyes intent on Sherlock’s face. “Are you ready for bed too?” 

_ He’s offering to go to bed with me _ Sherlock realized with a start,...

… and then he panicked inside. Time slowed down as his analytical brain took over and calculated every, single nuance of expression on John’s face in that moment. He catalogued the way shadows and light played across John’s features, the barely-there flutter at his neck that betrayed a heartbeat that must have been pounding to be even close to visible at this range. Here it was, the thing he’d wanted for almost a year now. An invitation to share a bed, with John bloody Watson. All Sherlock had had to do was to touch John twice and broach one uncomfortable subject and John had responded with obvious interest. 

At least… that’s what Sherlock  _ assumed  _ John was subtly implying. All the signs were there. John’s intent gaze on Sherlock’s face. The way the other man was leaned forward in his seat, eyes flicking down to Sherlock’s lips. John’s respiration rate had increased and his skin was slightly flushed. His voice was soft and sure, with a hint of teasing suggestion underlying the gentleness of his tone as he’d said the words,  _ Are you ready for bed too? _

Sherlock compiled all of this biological and visual data in a split second, and even then, that tiny measurement of time seemed to stretch out, to multiply as time slowed and his vision sharpened in on the clues at hand. Just as it always did when Sherlock bent his mind to the task of carefully observing evidence for a case. John’s desire was the mystery that needed solving. Did John desire him? If he splayed all the evidence out before him, the answer seemed a resounding yes. 

But… but… Sherlock could not help but try and poke holes in his certainty that John felt the same way he did.  _ He’s simply lonely and horny. He hasn’t had a date in weeks and he’s transferring his attraction onto me as a result. _

_ He’s just being nice.  _

_ He is simply saying ‘goodnight’. Not inviting me to his bed. Of course he’s not _

And then, another thought intruded on Sherlock’s negative worries.  _ What if he  _ does _ desire me? _ What if Sherlock  _ did _ go to bed with John? What then? Would everything change? What if John hated the sight of Sherlock naked? What if he thought Sherlock’s clumsy attempts at love making were ridiculous, and laughed at him? God only knew the horrid things could happen to a person when inexperience, sex and social awkwardness intersected.

He paused in response to John’s invitation. He paused, and it took too long, and he watched as John’s face closed up, became friendly and collected again, with just a hint of disappointment echoing in the firm set of his mouth. 

“I think I’ll stay up and work on some things” Sherlock said at last, lamely, eyes falling to where his hands rested on the top of his computer. 

“Right. OK. I’ll see you tomorrow.” John’s voice was gruff, and his movements stiff as he grabbed his papers and his now empty wine glass and made to move away. 

“Goodnight, John.” Sherlock dared to look John in the eyes as the other man paused, balanced on one foot, the other raised to step away towards his bedroom.

“Goodnight, Sherlock.” John replied tersely, with a tight smile, before he walked down the hallway to his room. Sherlock heard him step inside and close the door behind him. Then he heard the very faint noises of John bustling about and preparing for bed. It was a sound that usually made him feel cosy and secure, knowing that John was under the same roof as he, safe and sound and domestic. But now, it was the sound of his own failure. 

He should be _ inside _ that bedroom  _ with  _ John. John should have been in his arms by now. Their interaction had happened less than a minute ago, yet if Sherlock had accepted John’s invitation, they would undoubtedly be locked in a passionate embrace by now, pulling off each other’s clothes and kissing…  _ kissing _ in a way that Sherlock had dreamed of in masturbatory fantasies for far too long. And yet, here he was instead, alone with his laptop and his worries and his unceasing brain that could not help but catalog all the different ways saying yes could have gone wrong in excruciating detail, or how there was never an invitation there in the first place.

Sherlock took a few deep breaths in through his nose and let them out his mouth in a low hiss. Meditative breathing often helped slow him down when his brain went into hyper mode. He rose from his chair and brought his wine glass into the kitchen and proceeded to wash the few dishes that occupied the sink. As he did so, he hummed a comforting little tune to himself and ran through the names of London’s streets in alphabetical order, yet another thing that soothed him when he got too agitated. 

The warm water from the tap and the smell of the dish soap, and the calming industrious motions of scrubbing and rinsing the plates, cups and bowls soon lulled him into a slower, more orderly state of mind. He could think once again, past the rabbit beat of his heart and past the burn of disappointment and shame that had resulted when he’d seen John turn and walk away with that stiff expression on his face. 

It seemed his experiment, to welcome John in, had been a success. That much he could be proud of. It was surprisingly easy how just a few intimate gestures had enticed John to share about his sexuality, to ask Sherlock to share as well. How telling John he missed him had pulled John towards him so suddenly. It certainly seemed as if the other man were interested in a deeper connection. But Sherlock couldn’t be certain. He didn’t want to lead John on, but he also couldn’t bring himself to accept an invitation that was anything less than blatant. ‘ _ Are you ready for bed too?’ _ was not  _ Will you come to bed with me _ ? John hadn’t said ‘ _ I want you’ _ . And until he did, Sherlock feared he’d never gather the courage to make the first move. 

Too much was at stake for misinterpretation. Their friendship for one. A friendship that Sherlock was surprised to realize he cherished more than the possibility of having sex with John. If John never wanted to be with him romantically, Sherlock would find a way to cope with that, but if they became involved briefly, only to burn out over some argument or some insensitive thing Sherlock would likely say, that might compromise the friendship they’d worked so hard to develop. And that was unacceptable. Sherlock would rather have John around as a close friend, to live with, to work cases with, than to have him however briefly as a lover if the sex were to sour their connection. And then there was the possibility that John desired him, but only in the most base, physical ways. That he didn’t share Sherlock’s deep well of emotion for John. Emotion that Sherlock was unaccustomed to dealing with, and was struggling to navigate. What then? What if John was simply randy from the lack of female company, from his recent dry spell? Sherlock had no intention of being a one night, or even a-few-nights stand.

Sherlock placed the dishes in the drainer one by one and then dried his hands on a dish towel and went to his room. He undressed in the dark and climbed into his suddenly lonelier feeling bed, pulling the sheets and blankets up under his chin. He’d continue his experiment tomorrow. Would continue to gently welcome John in, and would see what happened. He’d only move things forward if John explicitly told him what he wanted from Sherlock and what a physical connection would mean to him. He hated being so passive, but he didn’t really have a feasible alternative. He was terrified of coming out and saying how he felt. He had a long history of being rebuffed, of having people turn away from him in disgust or anger. To make a pass at John, only to have the other man recoil or worse, explain patiently and  _ kindly _ that he just didn’t see Sherlock that way… Well… That was an intolerable option. Far better to swing the door open wide and see if John would approach. The door could always be closed again if John didn’t take the hint. But actively pursuing John could not be taken back or brushed off so easily. It was blatant and forward and undeniable. 

Sherlock wrapped his arms around himself and waited for the heat of his body to warm up the bed. As he slowly drifted off to sleep, he was haunted by the vision of John’s intent face, of John’s voice, asking him if he were ready for bed.

__________________________________________

The next morning, Sherlock made his way blearily to the kitchen to find John already awake, cup of coffee in hand. When he saw Sherlock, he wordlessly poured him a cup as well and pushed it towards him on the counter top. Sherlock accepted it with a grateful nod and let the steam from the bitter smelling brew bloom against his face, as he tipped the dark liquid towards his mouth for a sip. He was unusually groggy this morning. John by comparison, was chipper and fully awake. It usually only took John around four minutes to go from stumbling sleepiness to full and coherent wakefulness. By comparison, it took Sherlock nearly fourteen minutes to achieve total, sharp awareness. He wasn’t sure how John achieved this, but it probably had something to do with his military training. 

They stood there for a few moments, in companionable silence. John knew better than to try to talk to Sherlock until the other man had gotten some measure of caffeine into his system. He picked up the paper and took a seat on a chair at the kitchen table, a gap in his t-shirt displaying a tempting glimpse at his collarbone and the top of his pectoral muscle, dusted in light brown chest hair. Sherlock tore his eyes away from this tempting sight and took a seat across from John, staring contemplatively into his coffee cup. 

“Headed to the clinic soon?” he asked, pointlessly as he knew John always left the flat an hour or so from now. 

“Yeah. It’ll be a short shift though.” John’s voice was casual and relaxed, but there was a tension just beneath the surface that Sherlock picked up on instantly. “I thought,” the other man continued, “we might, I don’t know, go out for dinner tonight. If you wanted to.”

“Dinner?” Sherlock’s brain wasn’t catching up with John’s words as quickly as he wanted it to. 

“Only if you want to. I’ll be tired and won’t want to cook, and let’s face it, your cooking is atrocious. And I’m rather sick of take out. What do you say? Chinese? Curry?”

They did eat together relatively often, but usually it was inside the flat. Meals out together were rare, and usually reserved for times of absolute necessity. John these days reserved his disposable income for taking women out to eat. 

“Alright. That sounds… nice” Sherlock ventured cautiously. He wasn’t sure what lay behind John’s sudden desire to go out to eat, but it offered him a chance to spend more one on one time with his flatmate, so Sherlock readily agreed. 

“Good. Let’s meet there. I have some errands to run after work, so, let’s say meet at… half past five?”

Sherlock nodded agreement and John folded the paper up and went to go take a shower. Sherlock had a meeting with Lestrade down at Scotland Yard to discuss some details about the last case they’d solved. It would occupy some of his day until he could see John again. He caught himself thinking that his day was actually just a way to kill time between seeing John, and scolded himself inwardly for being such an obsessive. There were things in life besides John. Cases to work. Research to do. Experiments to conduct. 

Sherlock wasn’t stupid. He realized that all of his endeavors that didn’t include John were related to work and science. He had no other human interactions in his life, outside of the random chats with Mrs. Hudson and his meetings with Lestrade and Molly. But those were mere pleasantries (or not-so-pleasantries when he let his mouth get the better of him, as he usually did). Those experiences weren’t like the way he was with John. His flatmate was the only person he knew who could entertain and enliven him, intrigue him and yes, even anger him the way he did. All other people paled by comparison. Sherlock wasn’t sure this was healthy, to narrow down his needs for human affection, companionship and entertainment to one individual, but he couldn’t help who he liked, and he liked John Watson more than anyone else alive. 

More than liked. He  _ loved  _ John in all the ways he could think of to love a person. He loved John’s intellect. His humor. His dedication to a cause. His bravery. He loved John’s face and John’s compact, muscular body, and his short, light brown hair, shot through with silver, and his blueberry-storm-sky eyes. He loved the sound of the other man’s voice, and how hearing him come up the stairs after a shift at the clinic made Sherlock’s heart quicken. 

Rather than lose himself in fantasies of John’s body, which predictably only lead to one place, Sherlock took a quick, rather lukewarm shower, and got dressed. He would head over to Lestrade’s office early, then possibly to visit Molly at the morgue, then home again to prepare for his date with John.  _ No. Not date. Just dinner between friends _ , he corrected himself. 

____________________________________

It turned out that Lestrade had a new case for him to work. A delivery boy had been murdered on the stoop of an apartment building, when the only person at home at the time had been a ninety six year old woman with heart problems. An unlikely murderer under the best of circumstances, but she also had an airtight alibi (quite literally) as she was tied to an oxygen tank in a room on the second floor at the time of the murder. She had not called for take out, and hadn’t heard a thing that night, and yet the delivery boy had been felled by a shot to the head from  _ inside _ the apartment. Sherlock was minorly intrigued and headed down to the morgue to take a look at the corpse and talk briefly with Molly. 

Molly flitted nervously around him as she usually did. It was distracting, but manageable. He knew it was just the way Molly was as a person. Always seeming to be on the verge of apologizing for her existence. Eyes darting here and there, hesitant to take up more space in the room than was actually necessary. She was a pretty girl, and under different circumstances, if she’d been more sure of herself, and if Sherlock actually fancied women, he might have been inclined to explore something with Molly. He respected her knowledge of necrosis and fatal diseases and her grasp on anatomy was admirable. But being that he didn’t fancy women and the fact that she was far too twitchy, he had relegated her firmly to the category of friend. 

It was a category she seemed to expect to be placed in. He could see the way Molly looked at him when she thought he wouldn’t notice. He knew she was besotted with him. And so he also knew to be careful not to lead her on. But her expertise and her soft nature made her easy and enjoyable to work with. He actively tried not to hurt her with his words, which was more than he could say for most other people. 

He circled the body and looked for clues as to how the young man could have been killed from inside a reportedly empty building with only one other (ancient and indisposed) occupant. The bullet hole in the man’s forehead seemed to have been made from a bullet coming at him straight on, rather than from an upper window. The angle of the exit wound meant that he’d been shot almost point blank and by someone holding the gun level. 

“John has invited me out to dinner tonight,” he remarked absently while he leaned in to scrutinize the corpse’s left ear. Now why had he said that?

“Really?” Molly’s reply was tremulous. “Is that unusual?”

“Yes. It is,” Sherlock replied, snapping shut his magnifying lens and making his way to the corpse’s feet to inspect it’s toes. “He rarely ever asks me to dinner. Not his style.”

“Where will you be going?” Molly, ever the polite girl, was making small talk.

“I have no idea,” Sherlock snapped at her, then amended his cross tone. “I mean. I hadn’t given it much thought. It’s so rare that we eat out in a proper restaurant together. We don’t really have any favorite places. I hope he doesn’t imagine that it’s up to me to pick the place. He’s the one causing a deviation to the normal routine of our domestic relationship.  _ He  _ should be the one to make the decision on where to eat.”

“You’re in love with him aren’t you?” The question from Molly, was spoken in a tone of voice that was quite familiar to him, even if the words she spoke shocked him to the core. It was the voice she used when telling someone something she was afraid to tell them. Quiet and hesitant. 

“What?” Sherlock straightened from his scrutiny of the corpse’s pant leg to shoot a fierce glance in Molly’s direction. To her credit, she flinched, but did not look away. Sherlock felt his heart rate quicken and his face grow warm. 

“I said… you’re… you’re in love with him. With John. Aren’t you?” Without waiting for a reply, she rambled on, clearly nervous to be broaching a subject this personal with the icy detective. “I don’t mean to pry, only, you talk about him a lot and I see the way you look at him, and I see the way he looks at you and-”

“How does he look at me?” Sherlock jumped on this new piece of information like a hungry cat pounces on a small insect, stepping closer to Molly, his eyes intent. Molly actually took a step back in the face of his lazer sharp focus. 

“Like he… well… like he always wants to touch you, but he keeps holding back from doing it.” she said, her voice small and uncertain. Almost as if she expected Sherlock to strike her. He stepped back and let his gaze soften so as not to drive her away. 

“Is that so... “ he remarked thoughtfully. “And how would you know what’s behind those looks huh?” Sherlock hated the way his heart leapt upon hearing Molly’s words. How quick he was to cling to any hope he was offered that John felt something more than friendship for him. It was pathetic. 

“Well, because… that’s the way people look at each other when they… when they want to be with each other.” she finished, looking down at her hands that were clenched together in front of her, her face contorted in an expression of extreme discomfort. She wasn’t able to look him in the eyes, and the message was clear, even if it wasn’t spoken out loud  _ She knew how people looked at those they wanted to be with, because that’s the way Molly looked at Sherlock. _

Sherlock was mildly stunned. He realized that his mouth was hanging open slightly and shut it with a soft snap. “Molly,” he began. “Molly I..”

“I think it’s time I went to go check on the petri dish I set up earlier. You can show yourself out can’t you Sherlock?” Molly was already turning away from him, without looking him in the eyes, making herself smaller and quieter as she swiftly walked away, back to her office. Sherlock watched her go with a pang of regret. He should really be more careful with Molly’s feelings. They were so tender and fragile to begin with. Being friends with her was sort of like a hammer becoming friends with a light bulb. One wrong move and he could shatter her. Or perhaps not? He sensed there was a strength to Molly, under the surface, that hadn’t been tapped yet. But still, he owed her more attention and consideration. 

Her words still echoed in his head.  _ That’s the way people look at each other when they… want to be with each other. _ Could he dare to dream that John felt the same way? He supposed that all depended on how much he trusted Molly’s intuition. Would she be blinded by her own feelings? Would she project them onto John? Well, she’d certainly not projected her feelings onto  _ Sherlock _ . She’d picked up on the longing in his eyes when he looked at John.

Sherlock shook his head to focus himself back on the corpse on the inspection table in front of him. He noted the state of the dead man’s fingernails, any marks on his body from when he’d crumpled into a lifeless pile on the doorstep of the building where he’d been shot. He cataloged it all away in files in his brain for later use. Then he went out to the street and caught a cab home, unable to stop Molly’s words from ringing in his head.

When he got home, he scrolled through the list of local restaurants and selected a nice looking Indian place a few blocks from 221B. He texted the name and location to John and received a one word response back. 

**_perfect_ **

Perfect. Good then. Sherlock was glad John approved of his choice in restaurant. That was at least one small hurdle overcome in the uncertain evening that stretched before him. He settled in to do some chemical tests on the way gunpowder reacted to wet concrete, which by necessity involved pouring a half-bucket of water out onto the sidewalk below his sitting room window and then shooting at it with his gun (silencer attached, of course.) He was forced to stop the experiment when Mrs. Hudson came bustling up the stairs in a panic, going on about how Sherlock couldn’t simply “shoot at the street like a madman.” She was unrelenting in her insistence that he stop his experiment, even when he reassured her that he’d waited until the street was empty to shoot at it. 

Having been shut down in the scientific department, he grabbed his laptop and looked into the structural make-up of the buildings to either side of where the victim had been found shot, then looked into the victim’s background. Turns out, after not even that much digging, that the dead man had connections with the local mafia. From there, it was a hop, skip and a jump to deducing that a hit man had made copies of the old lady’s keys, had slipped inside the foyer and had ordered a pizza, lying in wait for the delivery boy to show up so that he could dispatch him. He would have solved the case far sooner if Molly’s deductions about his feelings surrounding John hadn’t thrown him so badly. 

He texted Lestrade about his findings, receiving a predictable text back.

**_You’re a bloody genius, you know that?_ **

Sherlock couldn’t help but grin a little at Lestrade’s compliment. Shocking the silver haired detective inspector with his razor sharp deductions was one of Sherlock’s little pleasures in life. 

He went next to take an extra long, extra hot shower, wanting to be squeaky clean for his dinner with John. As the hot water sluiced over his shoulders and slid down his back, and as he rubbed soap slick hands over his body, his thoughts turned naturally to John. What if John were to come home early and join him in the shower? Simply disrobe and slip in behind him without a word. Sherlock pictured himself turning to see the shorter man, nude, flinching gently as droplets of warm water bounced off of Sherlock’s wet body and struck him in the face. He pictured John stepping forward into Sherlock’s arms, pictured Sherlock’s slippery, wet hands sliding around John’s waist and pulling the other man against him.

The feeling of his cock, throbbing insistently, at full mast, shook Sherlock out of his fantasy. Of course. Thoughts of John being near him always got Sherlock rock hard in an instant. And since he couldn’t very well be plagued with these memories tonight during dinner… Sherlock gripped himself firmly at the base and began stroking himself, moaning gently at the slick feel of his hand on his cock. In his mind’s eye he pictured dropping to his knees and taking John’s cock into his mouth, feeling the hot shower water cascading down on his head and shoulders as he did so. He rinsed his other hand free from soap and slid two of his own long, slender fingers into his mouth and sucked on them while he stroked, imaging that it was John’s thick cock sliding past his lips. 

The combination of the soapy slickness of his hand, the fingers pumping in and out of his mouth and the mental images of John gasping and thrusting as Sherlock bobbed up and down on his cock had Sherlock getting close to orgasm in only forty seven seconds of self stimulation. He was vaguely aware that this was a personal record. 

He thought of John gasping out that he was going to come, and he increased the force and speed of the fingers he fucked his mouth with, simultaneously moving his hand more swiftly over his cock as his orgasm approached. He pictured John moaning and pushing into the back of Sherlock’s throat, and Sherlock pressed his pointer and ring fingers further into his mouth until he was close to gagging, moaning at the feel of it. He imagined John gasping out  _ Sherlock!  _ as he came, imagined it was John’s cock, twitching in his mouth instead of his own, long fingers. The thought pushed him over the edge and he convulsed with a muffled shout, sucking hard on his fingers as he spilled his pleasure onto the floor of the bathtub at his feet in long spurts that were swiftly washed away. 

Breathless and loose, Sherlock finished washing up and stumbled from the shower, feeling dazed. Masturbating to thoughts of John always did this to him. It took his brain offline and made him lose his senses momentarily. Nothing else other than heroin had ever done that to him. He wondered absently if having sex with John would become as addictive as the drug he’d shaken off a few years ago. He thought it might be worth the risk just to find out. 

He dressed impeccably in a dark pair of trousers, a dark suit jacket and a form fitting button down shirt in a deep red color. John had absently remarked that Sherlock looked good in red once, a few weeks ago. A strangely intimate compliment from one straight man to another. It had been a moment, one of several that Sherlock hoarded away in a secret corner of his brain as proof that John felt more for him than he let on. Either way, if the kind-eyed army doctor thought red suited him, then red he’d wear. He needed to work every advantage he had to continue his experiment. 

Five o’clock rolled around at last and Sherlock headed down to the street to walk over to the restaurant. He’d spent extra time making sure his dark curls were arranged neatly and that any trace nose or ear hairs had been cleaned up. It had occurred to him, belatedly, as he walked toward the restaurant, that he’d (again) been preparing for a date. He admonished himself silently, knowing that John may not share that opinion, and not wanting to jump the gun. But still, there was a strange electricity to the air tonight. This was a rare and special thing, them eating together in public. 

He arrived early to the restaurant and secured them a table by the window. Sherlock liked having a view of the street. It gave him an excuse to look away from John if he needed to avoid the other man’s eyes, or act casual when he felt anything but. People sitting with a view to the street were virtually compelled to watch pedestrians walk by, or admire the lights of the city. By comparison, sitting in the middle of the restaurant would only allow Sherlock to stare at the other patrons, which was less than polite. 

John arrived a few minutes later, looking rumpled and a little tired from the stresses of his busy clinic. He sat down and smoothed distracted hands over his jumper, flicking his dark eyes at Sherlock and nodding in greeting. He seemed nervous. 

“You look nervous,” Sherlock said, never one to mince words. 

“Do I? Well, I’m not. It was just a long day, even with me getting out early,” John busied himself briefly with straightening his silverware then reached for the menu. “What are you getting? I have a yen for chicken vindaloo.”

Sherlock didn’t reply right away. He used the fact that John was looking down at the menu to unbutton one more scarlet button on his shirt, effectively exposing another inch of his pale neck. He wondered if John would notice. “Probably the chicken curry. The website said it’s their specialty,” he remarked. He was beyond pleased when John’s eyes flicked up to rest on Sherlock’s face, then slid down to the open space in Sherlock’s shirt. He saw the other man lick his lips.  _ Yes. He noticed.  _ Sherlock rejoiced inwardly at successfully drawing John’s attention this way. “How was work?” he asked, keeping his voice to a low rumble.

“Bloody awful to be honest,” John breathed out a deep sigh, as if letting go of hours worth of stress in one long gust of air. “My very first patient sicked up on the exam table. Another one broke down crying over a diagnosis. Another one accused me of malpractice because she took the wrong number of muscle relaxers for her pulled neck. Everyone seemed to have a chip on their shoulder. I’m beyond glad that it’s over. How was your day?”

Sherlock thought briefly of Molly guessing about his feelings regarding John and of his steamy wank session in the shower while picturing John’s cock in his mouth. “It was fine. Uneventful,” he said, just as the waiter appeared. They ordered their food and John pulled out a bottle of red wine he’d brought in his messenger bag. 

“I might drink all of this and leave none for you,” he remarked, taking the uncorked bottle back from the waiter and pouring them both a generous glassful. “Just giving you a heads up.”

“I’ll keep that in mind” Sherlock grinned and toasted John with a clink of glass against glass. “To an enjoyable dinner and a decrease of work stress,” he intoned, catching John’s eyes with his own and deepening his smile. It had the desired effect. John visibly relaxed and took a long sip of his wine, sighing happily and settling back in his chair. His plaid shirt, beiges and burgundies and pale cream in stripes across his firm chest a nice contrast to his eyes that shone dark in the candlelight.  _ Dear lord, he looks good _ , Sherlock thought, while willing his eyes away from playing hungrily over John’s face and upper body.

“It’s good to see you,” John said after a moment of quiet contemplation. “To be honest, you’re the best part of my day, coming home and chatting with you…” he faltered, then, looked down at his plate, as a pink flush made its way across his cheeks. Sherlock’s heart started to pound. This was quite demonstrative for John. 

“It’s good to see you, too,” he replied gruffly. “You’re the, erm, best part of my day as well.” 

Both men sat in awkward silence after that. Both unsure of how to continue with the conversation after a confession of such subtle magnitude. 

“What made you decide to eat out with me tonight?” Sherlock hazarded, spinning the stem of his glass between thumb and forefinger, trying not to look too eager to hear John’s response. 

“I told you. I’m sick of cooking and sick of take away. I thought it would be a nice change.” John ran a hand through his soft, short hair, making it stand on end in places, lending him a charmingly disheveled look. Sherlock struggled to remain aloof. “I like your choice of restaurant. Haven’t had a good curry in months,” he added, flashing Sherlock a small smile with his eyes over the brim of his glass as he took another sip. 

“Yes. I haven’t either.” Sherlock wasn’t sure of what else to say. He felt shy suddenly, being confronted by John, across a small table in an intimate setting. There was soft music playing in the background of the restaurant and the lights were yellowy and dim, lending a definite romantic air to the inside of the dining room. A small tea candle was lit, and it flickered away cheerily on the table between them.  _ This certainly feels like a date _ Sherlock couldn’t help but let that thought flit through his mind.  _ Am I on a date? _ Well, since John had not explicitly said as much, Sherlock would have to assume that no, it was not a date. But perhaps, if he put out more signals of availability, it might become one? Sherlock took a deep breath, willing his shoulders to relax and the jitters in his stomach to calm. He settled back in his chair and gave John a long, steady look, keeping John’s eyes fixed with his own and letting a small smile play about the corners of his mouth. It was a flirtatious look. An invitation. He would simply put out a proverbial hand and see if John would reach to take it. Nothing said overtly. Nothing truly risked so that nothing could be truly lost. Indirect. Safe.

It was startling how effective such a small thing was. How the air between them turned to electric sparks and how John’s face changed, John’s eyes grew wider, more luminous, his pupils dilated out to make his eyes look black in the yellow light from the candle.  _ He must feel something, _ thought Sherlock, his breath hitching in his throat. He kept up his long, steady gaze, and John returned it, eyes locked with Sherlock’s. Neither spoke for almost a full minute, and Sherlock could see John’s breath come faster, could see his mouth gape softly open and his chest rise and fall more dramatically.  _ That’s it _ , thought Sherlock through a haze of want.  _ That’s it. Listen to what I’m saying to you. Tell me you feel it, too. _

John opened his mouth further as if to speak, but just then the waiter arrived with the food. Both men looked away and down to the bowls of steaming chicken in savory sauce. The moment was over, which was fine with Sherlock, as he wasn’t sure how much longer he could have sustained that eye contact without blurting out something he’d ultimately regret. They spent a happy few minutes serving themselves piles of fluffy white rice and generous spoonfuls of tender chicken in thick, creamy sauces and then tucked in. John moaned and closed his eyes at the first forkful of his vindaloo. “Oh dear god, that’s lovely,” he groaned out, chewing rapturously. Sherlock had to agree that the food was delicious, but not quite as delicious as the sight of John enjoying it. The movement of his masseter muscle as he chewed, the way his face transformed with pleasure over the tastes sliding over his tongue. Sherlock swiftly admonished himself for letting John’s enjoyment of food take his mind in such lascivious directions. 

“Yes. It’s quite good. You should let me pick the restaurants from now on. Your taste, when left to your own devices is atrocious. Remember that horrid Greek place you took us to last year? Inedible.”

“I don’t remember you complaining when you were shoving cold dolmades into your face at three o’clock that next morning.” John shot back with a grin. 

“Well, they were the only passable part of the meal, which is why I took them home.”

“Either way, you’ve earned the right to recommend restaurants for us after taking me here.” John pushed another forkful of chicken and rice into his mouth and chewed happily. “This is fantastic.”

_Taking me. Taking me._ _After taking me here._

_ I’d take you anywhere, _ thought Sherlock. 

They chatted amiably about John’s day, Sherlock simply listening with his chin rested on steepled fingers, his eyes trained on John’s face. He stopped eating long before John did. He never ate much, but he was pleased to see John finish off all of his food. The man worked hard and didn’t sleep enough. Sherlock liked to see John well fed and well rested. He longed to care for him in other ways too. To smooth his hair back from his forehead. To place soft kisses to his lips and wrap his arms around John and squeeze him tight. He longed to do things that pulled noises from John’s mouth. Gasps and groans. Cries of pleasure. He wanted to turn John into a shaking, tingling mess. 

_ Calm down Sherlock, _ he cautioned himself. Now was not the time or the place to develop a raging erection. They were at dinner for Christ’s sake. John was tired from his day, and here was Sherlock, unable to stop staring at his mouth as he spoke. He saw John notice this. Saw John reach for napkin to self consciously swipe at his lips, clearly thinking he had a dollop of sauce or a small piece of food stuck to his cheek or mouth. Sherlock flicked his eyes away. He’d been caught staring. Again.

“Let’s go home,” John said suddenly. “It’s been a long day and I just want to relax.” 

“Alright. Yes. Let’s go home,” Sherlock agreed. He insisted on paying for dinner, despite John’s protestations that it had been John’s idea in the first place, and they rose and walked out to the street. 

The walk back was quiet. Sherlock was content to walk beside John down the street, feeling the hectic noise and the flashing lights of the city bounce off of his hypersensitive ears and eyes. It seemed so much more bearable and less distracting with John, solid and stable by his side. John was his anchor he realized. His safe port in the storm of Sherlock’s endlessly spinning brain and tumultuous emotions. John was so down to earth, so  _ real _ and so stoic that he grounded Sherlock to the earth. Without John, Sherlock would spin off into a lonely, cold corner of space. He’d let his brain take over all else, would eat less, sleep less, spend all of his time chasing clues and seeking knowledge, and no time at all connecting with other people, laughing, sharing. This of course made the shorter man at his side all the more indispensable. 

What would Sherlock do if John left? Would telling John how he felt drive the other man away? Would telling him cement their relationship more firmly? Unanswered questions like this made Sherlock’s stomach twist queasily. 

They walked in silence all the way back to 221B, and stayed silent as they walked up the stairs to their flat. John hung up his coat and so did Sherlock and then they stood for a moment in the foyer, looking at each other and away again, shy like school boys. 

“Sherlock,” began John, lifting a hand and placing it on Sherlock’s shoulder. His face looked cautious and a little regretful. Sherlock thought it was the face of a man about to address an elephant in the room, and perhaps the face of a man about to deliver a rejection. He twisted away from John’s touch.

“Shall we have another drink?” he asked with forced cheerfulness as he bypassed John and walked to the kitchen. 

“Sherlock. Wait,” John walked after him, but Sherlock didn’t turn to face him. He busied himself with getting the glasses and a bottle of whiskey out of the cabinet and pouring them both a good portion of the amber liquid. “Sherlock,” John repeated softly. He was right behind Sherlock now. Sherlock could feel John’s presence at his back like an orbiting moon. Like a pillar of flame. He took a deep shaky breath and turned with the whiskey glasses clasped in each hand. He thrust one in John’s direction and sidestepped the surprised army doctor a second time, headed for the sitting room. 

“Sherlock!” John barked out the name this time, and stopping Sherlock in his tracks. He put his drink down on the kitchen counter and strode up to Sherlock again. “Will you just stop for a minute and talk to me,” John said, his voice softer and quieter now. 

“Very well. What do you want to talk about?” Sherlock injected his voice with an aloof, icy tone that he immediately hated himself for. He too put his glass down on a side table by his chair, and placed his hands on his hips.

“I think you know Sherlock. I want to talk about this.” John waved a hand into the space between them, as if indicating an invisible cord tying them together at the waist. “This… thing we’ve been avoiding.”

Sherlock felt his stomach flip and his heart start to pound. “What  _ thing? _ ” he asked, feigning ignorance still for the purposes of self preservation. 

John sighed. “Alright. I see you’re dedicated to playing dumb. Going to make me say it on my own are you?” John’s face was grim and determined, with a hint of anger. But beneath the anger there was something deeper and harder to define. Hope? Fear? A mix of both maybe. 

“Whatever it is you want to say John, I hope you know that I’ll listen and respond with clarity and respect.” Sherlock knew he was being an utter twat, but lacked the courage to make it any easier on John than he was already. Making it easier on John meant exposing himself to pain and rejection in a way he was not prepared to deal with. 

“Very well. If that’s how you want it to be, I can deal with that.” John sighed and ran his fingers through his hair again. “I want to talk about us. About this thing between us. This… tension.” He also put his hands on his hips and looked down at the floor, then back up at Sherlock with fierce eyes that took Sherlock’s breath away. “I feel like there’s something here worth exploring. Beyond friendship, and I think, if I’m not a complete and utter unmitigated fool, that you feel it, too.” 

“You’re not a fool” Sherlock responded. It was all he could summon up the courage to say. His breath was coming fast and his cheeks were burning and his stomach was in knots. He silently willed John to continue. 

“So you do feel it, too?” John’s question was blatant, but Sherlock could answer it without giving himself away completely. No one was being specific here. No declarations of undying love had been requested, or made. It was still safe to match John for what he was willing to put out.

“Yes. I do.” Sherlock replied, and watched as all the air went out of John’s lungs and a look of relief washed across his face. 

“Oh… Oh. Good.” John looked as if he were truly expecting a different response, and Sherlock felt a twinge of very relatable sympathy. “I thought you’d tell me I was imagining things and to shove off.”

“You’re not imagining anything John. I’m…” Sherlock paused here, thinking of the least exposed way he could express his feelings for John. “I’m, very attracted to you.”

“You are?” The hope in John’s eyes hit Sherlock like a punch in the chest. He felt himself drawn in towards the other man, and took two steps closer to him without realizing he’d even done it. John stepped closer too, until barely a foot of space separated them. 

“Yes John.” Sherlock said, his voice dipping down into a low rumble, his eyes searching John’s face, looking for a sign, an invitation… permission. 

“Well then.” John continued softly, chest heaving gently, eyes glued to Sherlock’s face. “I feel the same way. I’m.. um” here he gulped audibly “very attracted to you too.” He looked down briefly, his cheeks coloring. “Should we… do something about that?”

Sherlock was afraid he might pass out from the spinning of his head and the way it was suddenly so hard to breath. “Do what, John?” Again, he had to hear John say it. Couldn’t say it first.

“Whatever you want,” John replied, his voice a velvet rasp as he looked back up into Sherlock’s eyes with heated longing painted plainly across his face. “Whatever you’d like… anything at all”. The invitation was clear. The door had swung wide open. Sherlock was dizzy with the sudden possibilities that lay before him. 

“Well John” He said softly, stepping in to close the distance, willing himself the courage to say the next few, simple words. “I’d very much like to… to kiss you. If that’s alright.” Upon making the request, he felt his heart kick into high gear and his skin shiver with nerves. Every nerve in his body was alive and firing off signals to his brain. He was lit up inside with sparking energy as he waited for John’s response.

“Yes.” John replied simply, his stormy eyes wide and trained on Sherlock’s, his chest rising and falling, lips parted. “Yes. That would be great. More than great. I want that, too.”

Sherlock raised a shaking hand and placed it slowly against the side of John’s neck. He felt the hot skin beneath his palm, felt the back of John’s neck with the tips of his fingers. He let his thumb come to rest in the hollow of John’s throat. He felt the shorter man’s heartbeat racing there, like that of a rabbit in a trap. He marveled briefly at how John’s neck fit so fully into the palm of his long fingered hand. How much smaller and more compact John’s entire body was than Sherlock’s. He’d be so easy to move about in bed. So easy to envelop in Sherlock’s long arms. 

Slowly, keeping his eyes trained on John’s as he went, he lowered his head, lowered his open, panting mouth down to John’s. He pulled John in gently with the hand on the shorter man’s neck and John came willingly, loose and pliant, letting himself be drawn in. Sherlock saw John’s eyes flutter shut and closed his own eyes as their lips touched. Touching just barely. Skin connecting and sticking to skin for a brief moment. Sherlock could taste John’s breath, red wine and Indian spices in a pleasant mix against his mouth. He pressed further, blending their lips together more firmly, and heard John give a soft moan in the back of his throat. 

Sherlock pulled away and looked down at John, who opened his eyes a split second after Sherlock did, eyes that looked drunk and fully dilated, black in the yellow lamplight. “Was that alright?” he breathed into the heated space between their open mouths. 

“Yes. It was bloody fantastic. Can we do that again?” John asked, breathless.

Sherlock nodded and John grabbed him by the lapels and pulled him in for a proper kiss, pressing his mouth against Sherlock’s with a surety and a pressure that made Sherlock’s brain go blank and white. All of his focus was now on John’s lips. John’s mouth pressed against his own. He felt the other man’s soft, wet tongue probe gently against Sherlock’s closed lips and opened his mouth to welcome John in. The kiss deepened with tentative licks of John’s tongue into Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock emulated John, flicking out his tongue to flirt with John’s and the other man groaned deep in his throat in a way that made Sherlock’s insides twist deliciously. 

John pulled away this time, looking up at Sherlock with flushed cheeks and gleaming eyes, his mouth lovely and wet with their combined saliva. “Dear god,” he said gruffly. “I could kiss you for hours.”

“No one’s stopping you,” Sherlock grinned and wrapped his arms around John’s waist, pulling the other man closer, flush with his own body. Both of them moaned at the feeling, and Sherlock bent his head again to taste John’s lips, this time becoming bolder and less restrained with the use of his tongue in John’s mouth. John threw his arms around Sherlock’s neck and kissed back with abandon, and then suddenly, the kiss wasn’t tentative or soft anymore. It was wet and busy and intense and a bit rough. Sherlock had last kissed someone over ten years prior, and yet kissing John felt natural, good, easy. And what the feel of John’s lips sliding so sweetly against his own did to Sherlock’s insides was far more profound than the last time he’d awkwardly engaged in this act with someone he barely cared for. Now he was kissing the man he  _ loved _ . It was perfection.

John moaned again, louder this time and thrust himself against Sherlock, so that Sherlock could feel his stiff erection against his upper thigh. Their heights were mismatched and so they couldn’t quite rub themselves together easily, but the feel of John, pressing his thick stiffness into the top of Sherlock’s leg made sparks explode inside Sherlock’s lower belly. He reached down and grabbed John’s arse in both hands and hiked the other man up against himself, thrust back against John and heard John’s high pitched whine of lust in response. John broke the kiss and whispered “Bedroom. Now. Please,” against Sherlock’s mouth. 

The other man moved as if to break their embrace, clearly wanting to pull Sherlock to a nearby bed, but Sherlock resisted and pulled him back, murmuring “Not yet,” before capturing John’s mouth in another kiss. Part of him wasn’t quite ready for that. For getting naked. For lying down together. For John maybe looking into his eyes and seeing such hopeless love written there, so plain to see. Going to bed was intimate in the extreme. They’d never done so much as embrace before now, and here John was, willing and hot and thrusting against him, wrapped in Sherlock’s arms. He wanted to stay here. Stay fully dressed and focus on John for a while longer. His heart was still a wounded animal, hiding in a dark cave. Being naked in bed with John was like stepping out into the sunlight and exposing oneself to the hunter’s bow. 

He sank swiftly to his knees, wrapping his arms tightly around John’s waist and buried his face in John’s stomach over his shirt. He heard John make a strangled noise above him and he looked up into a pair of surprised eyes. “I want to suck you,” Sherlock said blatantly. “Here on the floor. Just like this. Is that alright John?” 

John’s eyes rolled back in his head briefly and he let out a noise that was half moan, half gasp. “Dear god yes,” was all he seemed capable of saying. His hands already coming up to wind themselves in Sherlock’s dark curls. “Your hair,” he breathed reverently. “It’s just as soft as I thought it would be.” He grabbed fistfuls of Sherlock’s dark locks in both hands and tightened his grip. Sherlock moaned deep in his throat. The tingles from John’s hands in his hair spreading across his scalp and down his back, making his cock stiffen even further in his trousers. 

He’d thought of doing this, dreamed of it for months, and his position, on his knees, would help him keep control of how much of himself he showed John. With his eyes canted down, his mouth busy, there’d be no chance of him blurting out his feelings or gazing at John like a fool. 

He fumbled clumsily with John’s belt buckle, managing to wrench it open after a few frustrating moments, then he had John unzipped and was reaching in, past John’s underthings and wrapping a hand around the other man’s thick, stiff cock. John gasped, then sucked a sharp breath in through his teeth. Sherlock looked up to check on him and found John staring down at him with glazed eyes, mouth hanging open. A look of disbelief painted charmingly across his face. 

Sherlock barely avoided saying something he’d regret, something John’s wrecked eyes almost pulled from him against his will. He swiftly turned his attention back to the cock in his hand. It was so stiff, so hard, and yet at the same time velvety soft. It felt so warm and solid in his grip. “You’re beautiful,” Sherlock gasped out, unable to stop himself, and then he gave a rough moan as he sank his mouth down onto the top half of John’s shaft. John cried out and his hands tightened further in Sherlock’s hair. It took Sherlock a couple of strokes with his mouth, needing to wet John’s shaft in increments to allow for his lips to slide all the way down to the root, but once he got there he groaned low at the feel of it. Of having John fully inside his mouth, pressing against the back of his throat. The taste of him, the heat of him, the thickness and the stiffness of him inside Sherlock’s mouth was intoxicating. 

John was gasping, each intake of breath was followed by a sharp cry on its way out of his lungs. “Sherlock!” He rasped “Oh fuck Sherlock.  _ fuck. _ ”

“Mmmm,” Sherlock hummed against John’s cock in his mouth and heard the other man cry out, louder this time. The sound caused Sherlock’s own lust to throb through his body. He pulled back and then sank down again to the sound of John gasping out his name like a sacred benediction. After that, he set up a rhythm, rising and falling slowly on John’s cock, letting the head jut against the back of his throat on every down stroke, swirling his tongue on every up stroke. He kept his eyes closed, reveling in the feel of that gorgeous prick sliding between his lips and filling his mouth with every down thrust. He wished they could stay like this forever. Him, safe and hidden from John’s scrutiny while being able to enjoy John’s body, making him come apart like this. 

“I’m… your mouth… I can’t… Sherlock. I’m, I’m way too close.” John’s voice was rough and ruined. He struggled to get the words out in between gulps of air and soft cries as Sherlock continued bobbing slowly on his cock. 

Sherlock nodded, grunting in an affirmative, and increased his speed, hoping to telegraph to John that making him explode in pleasure was the whole point of this exercise, and that John was not to hold back. He gripped John’s arse in both hands and pulled him in even deeper, and that was apparently what drove John over the edge. He cried out again, a strangled, high pitched noise and then groaned low and long as his cock twitched in Sherlock’s mouth and Sherlock was treated to the sour sweet taste of John’s hot semen against his tongue. John made desperate little, arrhythmic thrusts into Sherlock’s mouth as he came, grunting in pleasure as his orgasm peaked, then rolled through him. 

Sherlock held on tight and swallowed down every last hot, savory drop. He breathed deep through his nose and rode out John’s thrusts, moaning at the lovely feel of John losing control inside his mouth. Eventually, John’s cries shifted to deep gasps and his movements slowed and stopped. Sherlock carefully disengaged from John’s cock and looked up into John’s face. The man was slack mouthed and drunk-eyed and flushed. He looked so completely debauched and so utterly gorgeous that Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat at the site of him.  _ Don’t say it _ . He warned himself.  _ Don’t give yourself away _ .

He swiftly rose to his feet then, feeling awkward, his own erection still tenting his trousers, his cheeks burning from what the sight of John’s post orgasmic face was doing to his heart. He didn’t know where to look. He didn’t know what to do. John thankfully took care of that immediate problem by pulling Sherlock’s mouth down to his own, sharing the taste of his come with Sherlock in a languid, sloppy kiss. 

“Mmmm.” he hummed against Sherlock’s lips and pulled away gently. “You can’t know how good that was Sherlock. I... fuck. I’ve wanted that from you for a long time.” His eyes dropped down to Sherlock’s mouth “Just looking at those beautiful lips day in and day out. Wanting to kiss you. It was frankly getting a bit difficult.” He grinned up at Sherlock and Sherlock felt his heart skip a beat and then begin to pound away in his chest, as if to make up for slacking. 

“Glad you enjoyed it.” He said lamely. “I’ve... I’ve wanted that, too. With you.” 

John reached up with a tender hand and stroked it down the side of Sherlock’s neck. “Hey,” he said softly “you OK?”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock’s response came out a little sharper than he’d intended. He immediately regretted his tone as he watched something guarded flit through John’s gaze. 

“Sherlock,” John’s eyes were narrowed, the way they always got when he suspected there was something Sherlock wasn’t telling him. “Something’s wrong. Tell me. What’s wrong. Was the blow job too much? Did you not like it? Did I hurt you somehow?” His earnest eyes, full of worry were searching Sherlock’s face, looking for clues to what had happened to make Sherlock so stiff and unresponsive. It hurt to see him so concerned. 

“It’s fine John. No, you didn’t hurt me. I meant it when I said I’ve wanted that from you… with you, for a long time. I’m glad we did that. I wanted to do it .” He knew he didn’t sound convincing, but if John pushed any further, he’d have to express things he was terrified of saying. They’d taken a big step towards where Sherlock wanted to be with John, but simultaneously, as it was often with these emotionally challenging situations, they were also closer to crossing ground that was difficult for Sherlock. 

“Shall we go to bed?” John seemed only partly mollified by Sherlock’s lukewarm reassurances. His eyes, so soft and so kind as they looked up at Sherlock, still held a glimmer of worry in their blue-gray depths. “We could, I don’t know, just lay down and talk. Or not. Whatever you’d like. You could go to your own room and I wouldn’t hold it against you.” Here he cast his eyes down, looking forlorn even though Sherlock knew he was trying to hide it. His heart melted at the sight of John so shy and hesitant. 

“I’d like that. To lie down and talk with you,” he said, his voice a low rumble, shy, like a school boy. 

John nodded and redid his trousers before taking Sherlock by the hand and leading them to Sherlock’s bedroom. They lay, fully clothed in Sherlock’s twin bed, Sherlock on his back and John molded against his side, one arm under Sherlock’s neck, the other wrapped around his waist. It felt surprisingly natural and extremely comfortable. The smell of John, his shampoo and his deodorant, and the warm smell of his skin, welled up into Sherlock’s senses and he felt himself relaxing into John’s embrace. 

“So tell me what’s going on with you,” John said softly, his voice near Sherlock’s ear, his hot breath sending shivers down Sherlock’s spine. 

“Nothing John,” Sherlock lied. “I’m perfectly all right. What gave you the impression I wasn’t?”

“The fact that you’re behaving like a wind up soldier immediately after giving me probably the best orgasm I’ve ever had in my life.” John said. “I’d hate to think that you regret what we just did together.”

“I don’t regret it in the slightest,” Sherlock replied, his voice still somewhat wooden. John’s body felt so very good pressed up against his own. The feel of it was slowly eroding Sherlock’s defenses. 

“Then why do you sound so miserable?” John asked, his voice going flat in a way that made Sherlock’s chest clench with guilt. 

“Because I don’t know what to do now. I don’t know how to… be. This is new to me.” he managed to get out. 

John sighed, not in frustration, but in a release of tension. “Of course,” he responded. “Of course. I’ve been an idiot.” He pulled his arm out from behind Sherlock’s head and propped himself on his elbow so he could look down at Sherlock’s face. Sherlock immediately looked away. “Hey. Hey now,” John reached up with his other hand to pull Sherlock’s face back towards him. “Tell me what’s going on in that head of yours. Do you want me to leave?”

“No!” Sherlock was surprised at the intensity of his tone. “No,” he said, more calmly. “I want you to stay John. I’m just out of my depth.”

“If it helps, so am I,” John replied, still looking down into Sherlock’s face, his eyes like searchlights, seeking to uncover Sherlock’s secret, desperate love. “What would you like to do next? We can just lie here and be together if you’d like.” 

“I’d like that,” Sherlock replied, and so John snuggled back against him. After a minute or so, Sherlock rolled to face him and pulled John into his arms so that they lay, face to face, limbs wrapped around each other, and he could bury his face in John’s sweet smelling neck. 

It felt indescribably good to hold John like this. Warmly and tenderly, as if he deserved this kind of affection. As if he did this sort of thing whenever he wanted to or needed to. Too bad John would leave him the minute he said something insensitive. 

_ Now why did I think that? _ His analytical brain jumped into action to help explain the errant thought.  _ Because that’s what every other man you’ve cared about has done. You’re unlovable, _ came the harsh response from his conscious mind.

He stiffened suddenly in John’s arms and John pulled away again, this time taking Sherlock’s face in his hands and gazing into his eyes. “Sherlock,” He said more firmly than before. “You’ve got to tell me what’s going on.”

“I’m sorry John. I’m just afraid.” He couldn’t say more. He couldn’t meet John’s eyes, keeping his gaze fixed firmly on John’s forehead and mouth, skipping over his concerned eyes. 

“Afraid of what?”

“Afraid you’ll leave.” There. He’d said it. Laid out his worst fear at John’s feet. Exposed himself. 

“Why would I leave Sherlock? I only just got… here. I have no intention of going anywhere. Is that why you’ve been so skittish? Do you think I’m the type to shag someone and then take my leave? You should know me better than that by now. You should know that I’m… that I’m crazy about you.”

Sherlock’s heart leapt in his chest. “You are?” he asked, voice tremulous like a child’s and hating himself for how vulnerable he sounded. 

“Yes of course Sherlock. I’ve been gone on you for months. I thought what with that brain of yours you’d have figured it out by now. I thought you’d figured it out and weren’t acting on it because you didn’t feel the same way. S’why I kept my distance.”

“Oh.” Sherlock said simply, still unable to look John in the eyes. 

“Yes. So… well… now you know. I’m besotted. I’m completely enamored. I have no intention of leaving now or at any time in the near future.” He tightened his arms around Sherlock and pulled him in tighter. “Won’t you look at me?” he asked.

“I can’t.” Sherlock said, casting his eyes down to the top of John’s chest, face heating. “I can’t let you see.” 

“Let me see what?” 

“My eyes. My eyes when I look at you. If you see how I really feel, you’ll leave.”

“How do you really feel?” John asked gently. “Tell me”.

“Can’t,” repeated Sherlock. 

“Ok. It’s OK Sherlock.” John reached a hand up to smooth Sherlock’s dark curls away from his forehead and sighed. “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.”

He was being so patient and so careful, and it killed Sherlock a little inside to know that it was his own stupid, fearful reticence that was causing John to walk on eggshells. The man was in his bed for Christ’s sake. He’d just brought John off with his mouth and now he was wrapped up in Sherlock’s arms, warm and attentive and patient. Sherlock felt his heart swell painfully at how kind John always was with him. 

He also became very aware suddenly that he hadn’t come yet, and that John’s delicious body was pressed up against his own. He felt himself throb between them and pulled John even closer. 

“Well, well.” John teased gently. “There’s a very interesting part of you that doesn’t seem confused at all,” he punctuated his words with a slow roll of his hips, and Sherlock could feel that John was already hardening again inside his trousers. He moaned softly in response, his eyes fluttering closed. “What do you want?” John whispered against Sherlock’s mouth. “We can stay, just like this. We can play around for a while. I could suck you… I could use my hand. Tell me what you want.” His voice was tense with desire, low and rough in a way that made Sherlock’s insides turn all shivery. 

“I… I’d like you to touch me,” Sherlock managed to get out before capturing John’s lips in an urgent kiss. John kissed back with enthusiasm, their lips sliding together slick and soft and hot. It made Sherlock’s body catch fire, made his skin burn with tingling flames at the feel of John’s arms around him, holding him tight. John rolled on top of him and settled himself with a wriggle of his hips that made Sherlock moan again. He grasped Sherlock’s face in his hands and gazed down into Sherlock’s eyes with a focused intensity that made Sherlock’s breath hitch in his lungs.

“I want to make you feel good. I want to make you come,” He said, earnestly and plainly. The words causing a sharp twist of pleasure in Sherlock’s gut. “Tell me exactly what you want.”

“You.” The word was out before Sherlock could stop it. “I want you,” he said, then cast his eyes up at the ceiling, avoiding John’s gaze, feeling his cheeks growing hot again with the blatant honesty in his words.

“You’re shy,” John said, a gentle teasing note coloring his tone and Sherlock grimaced.

“Am not,” he bit out, still staring at the ceiling. 

“You are too!” John was clearly delighted at Sherlock’s inability to look at him. “The great genius detective! You’ll run into a hail of bullets to help solve a case, but you can’t even look into the eyes of the man who-” He stopped abruptly, as if he were about to say something, but then redirected himself. “-who’s now on top of you, wanting to get you off.” He finished smoothly, grinning at Sherlock’s discomfort. 

“No matter,” he continued when Sherlock refused to speak, keeping his gaze resolutely away from John’s face. “I’ll find a way to get you talking,” and with that, John rolled off of Sherlock and reached down to start undoing his trousers. He unzipped Sherlock and placed a hand gently over Sherlock’s hard cock over his pants. “Is this OK?” he asked, the teasing note still playing at the edges of his voice. “Do you want me to keep going?”

“Yes.” Whispered Sherlock.  _ Dear god yes,  _ he thought silently.

“What’s that Sherlock? I couldn’t quite hear you,” John seemed intent on drawing Sherlock out verbally. 

“I said  _ yes, _ ” Sherlock raised his voice so as to leave no doubt that he wanted John to continue. John chuckled softly. 

“Well, since you’ve asked so nicely…” His voice trailed off and Sherlock felt John’s warm hand squeeze him gently over the soft material of his pants. He moaned deep in his throat and thrust up against John’s hand. 

“Yesss,” he hissed. “More John.”

John complied, pressed down with the palm of his hand against Sherlock’s painfully hard prick, eliciting another moan of pleasure. John moaned with him, clearly affected by touching Sherlock like this. He swiftly reached inside Sherlock’s pants and wrapped his thick, solid hand around Sherlock at the base. Both men moaned again and Sherlock jutted his hips up into John’s hand and cried out softly. This was beyond his wildest dreams. John, touching him like this, lying with him in a warm bed. Promising to get him off. It was swiftly becoming overwhelming. He could feel his brain’s logical functions shutting down, being swept away by the feel of John’s hand on him. John’s hand that was now stroking him slowly, up and down, up and down. Sherlock threw his head back and gasped towards the ceiling. He gripped John’s shoulder tightly and thrust his cock gently into John’s fist. 

“Your cock is beautiful, Sherlock. You’re beautiful.” John’s voice was gruff and breathless as he slowly worked Sherlock with his hand. “You’re so bloody gorgeous. It took all I had to hold back this long. I wanted you so badly.” He kept stroking as he spoke, his hand moving a bit faster along Sherlock’s tight, tortured flesh. Sherlock’s heart melted under the onslaught of John’s compliments.

John’s hand slowed and stopped suddenly. “Do you have any lube?” he asked. Sherlock nodded swiftly and rolled away to fetch the small bottle from the drawer in his bedside table and hand it to John. John grinned and then pried the bottle open, slicking his palm with a generous amount of lube and tossing the bottle onto the bed next to them. He reached back down to take Sherlock in hand and executed one long, slow, slick stroke up Sherlock’s length and down again. 

“John!” Sherlock cried the other man’s name and gripped him by the shoulders. “Oh fuck John. That feels… That feels..” words failed him as John kept up the slow pace of slick strokes on Sherlock’s cock. 

“Yes Sherlock. You feel so good in my hand. Oh Jesus. You feel amazing,” John whispered roughly to him as he worked him mercilessly with his hand, twisting a bit at the head and increasing his speed. “I want to make you come” he stated gruffly, eyes trained on what his hand was doing to Sherlock’s cock. “I want to watch you lose control.”

Sherlock was close to complying with John’s wishes. He felt his orgasm approaching like a freight train, felt himself coiling tight deep inside, pulling back like a tsunami, preparing to explode outwards. His breath was coming in short, sharp gasps and he was thrusting up into John’s pumping fist with jerks of his hips. 

“That’s it, love. That’s it. Let go. You’re so beautiful. You’re so good. Come for me.”

John’s words, soft and breathless pulled a trigger inside Sherlock and he felt himself clench and then felt a burst in pleasure deep in his belly. “Oh! Oh fuck!” he gasped out, his grip on John’s shoulder tightening. “Oh. Oh… I...I love you!” he gasped out as the wave crested and he felt pulse after pulse of pleasure rip through him. “I love you. I love you” he said over and over, unable to hold back any longer. The words spilled from him as his hot come spilled out over John’s fist and splattered down onto Sherlock’s shirt and belly as he came. “I love you,” he whispered. “I love you” he moaned as the last of the shock waves faded and he came down from the high of orgasmic bliss. 

In the aftermath, Sherlock’s post coital bliss was shot through with intense discomfort over the words he’d been so careless to let spill from his mouth in the throes of orgasm. He’d done it now. He got up swiftly from the bed without a word, and went to the loo to wash up, leaving John to watch after him. After shedding his shirt, he used a damp flannel to clean his own semen from his stomach. As he toweled himself off he tried to calm the panicked thoughts rushing through his head. He’d told John that he  _ loved him _ . He’d blurted it out like a fool, unable to hold back anymore against the onslaught of pleasure brought on my John’s hand, his nearness, his soft words in Sherlock’s ear. 

_ That’s it, love. That’s it. Let go. You’re so beautiful. You’re so good. Come for me _

Sherlock did not feel beautiful. He felt gawky and stiff and strange. He did not feel good either. Being sharp like a blade and cold like frost on a winter morning wasn’t  _ good _ was it? Hurting those around him with the painful truth of his deductions wasn’t  _ good _ . He thought back to all the times he’d hurt John, without meaning to, and the few times he’d actually meant to do it. As a way of defending himself against his feelings for the shorter man. He didn’t deserve all the affection and love and warmth John was offering him. 

And now he’d gone and put his foot in it hadn’t he? Gone and spilled his heart out in a heated rush, like a fool. John knew now. Knew that Sherlock was a mess over him. That he could hurt Sherlock very badly if he wished. Or even by mere accident. He could stab Sherlock in the heart now, whether his hand meant to hold the knife or not. 

Sherlock realized he was hyperventilating. His body trying to pull in more oxygen to deal with the frantic pace of his heart. He looked at himself in the mirror, willing himself to calm down and regulate his breathing. He assessed his widely spaced blue eyes and the strange shape of his mouth, the mess of his dark hair in the reflective surface of the mirror and thought himself ugly and strange looking. How could John love someone so awkwardly put together? He looked washed out, pale, his eyes like the eyes of a rabbit, small and red rimmed. He’d been told he was beautiful many times, most recently by the utterly gorgeous man in the other room, but he never believed those people. 

He was startled by John’s knock on the lavatory. “Sherlock? You alright?” his voice sounded strained and worried. Sherlock mentally kicked himself for abandoning John to run and hide in the loo.    
  


“Out in a minute,” he said, but something in his voice must have betrayed his inner feelings, because John wasn’t easily put off. 

“You don’t sound alright Sherlock. Would you let me in?”

Sherlock wasn’t sure how to say no, and so he walked to the door and swung it inward, revealing a very worried looking John standing on the other side. 

“I’m glad you’re letting me in for two reasons,” John said with a small smirk. “The first being that you sound bloody awful, so I know something is going on in that massive brain of yours, and the second being that I need to wash my hand.” His grin spread wider and Sherlock’s face grew hot when he looked down and saw that John’s hand was still a sticky mess.

He swiftly stepped aside and gave John access to the sink, where the shorter man turned on the hot tap and washed his hands swiftly, before drying them on a towel by the sink. “There now,” he said, turning, giving his hands a final wipe against his trouser legs to dry them. “I think we need to address my first reason for being here.” He paused then, his eyes running up and down the length of Sherlock’s uncovered torso. “Dear lord Sherlock. The sight of you with your shirt off is making it hard to concentrate right now.”

The heat in Sherlock’s cheeks doubled in intensity and he self consciously crossed his arms in front of his chest, a move that made John’s face fall slightly. “Nothing’s wrong John,” he lied... again. Lied like the coward he was deep inside. “I’m fine.”

“Your ‘ _ fine’ _ ?” Incredulity and perhaps a touch of anger colored John’s tone. He’d put his hands on his hips, a sure sign that he was frustrated with Sherlock’s behavior. It was a stance and an attitude that Sherlock had witnessed multiple times over the course of their friendship. “Sherlock,” John’s voice was stiff and intent. “you just had what looked like a pretty strong orgasm while crying out that you loved me. I’m not sure telling me you’re  _ fine _ is going to convince me that something isn’t going on with you.”

Sherlock stayed silent, willing his heart to stop pounding in his ears, willing John to stop looking at him with that hurt, confused expression.

“And for the record Sherlock, since  _ I _ for one don’t have a problem expressing how I feel about you, I love you. I’ve said as much in different ways tonight, but I thought it would be best if I were explicit. I am  _ in love with you _ . Quite madly apparently. Now, will that help you loosen up whatever it is that’s going on in there?” 

He took a step towards Sherlock and placed a warm hand on the taller man’s shoulder. Sherlock let him, let the heat from John’s palm spread into the flesh of his shoulder and ease the worry in his heart a bit. He let his arms drop to his sides and took a deep, shaking breath. John, apparently heartened by the fact that Sherlock wasn’t pulling away, stepped even closer, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s neck. “I love you, you stupid git,” he said softly, looking up into Sherlock’s eyes with an earnest affection that took Sherlock’s breath away. Sherlock in turn looped his arms around John’s waist, holding him lightly. 

“Why?” Sherlock heard the vulnerability in his tone, in that one word, and flinched slightly.

“Why?” John repeated, incredulously. “Why? Wh-... Sherlock, how can you not know why I’d love you? You’re brilliant. You’re fascinating. You’re also infuriating, but in the best way possible, in a way that keeps me on my toes. And you’re bloody gorgeous. You look like a bloody Greek statue of some beautiful god carved out of marble. You’re stunning. I’m honestly surprised I was able to hold off on making a pass until now.”

“Why did you… hold off?” Sherlock asked, still reeling a bit from the long list of compliments John had so easily laid at his feet, but curious to know more, afraid to speak up until he did. 

“Well, you told me you weren’t interested in sex or romance.” John said frankly.

“Yes.” Sherlock replied. “I did didn’t I?”

“Yeah, you bloody well did.” John pulled his arms from around Sherlock’s neck and instead slid them around his waist, pulling their lower bodies together in a way that sent a thrill through Sherlock. “ I knew I had to respect that, but as the months went on, I could swear you were looking at me in a certain way. Lingering near me. It was confusing, but I didn’t want to bring it up again… just in case you rejected me.” John cast his eyes down to Sherlock’s chest, thick, light brown eye lashes brushing the tops of his cheeks in a way that made Sherlock want to grab him and kiss him. “And then, over the course of the past couple of days, you seemed to open up, to warm to me, even more than before. Like you were welcoming me in. And that was the last straw. I knew I had to speak up. That or suffer in silence for god knows how many more months or years. I also want you to know that your friendship is very important to me. If this sexual connection doesn’t last, or if you don’t want it, I’d still love to remain your friend.”

“I want it,” Sherlock blurted out. He saw John’s face light up in response and he bent to place a gentle kiss to John’s lips. He felt John shiver against him, causing him to shiver in response. Dear god how he wanted this man. He had to find the courage inside to meet John in the middle. To prove to him that this wasn’t a fling, that Sherlock was in love too. “I just. I need some time. I can’t shake the feeling that it will all fall apart the minute I make you angry or say something stupid.”

“If that’s the case,” John said with a wry smile, lifting his wrist in the pantomime of checking an imaginary watch, “we should be breaking up in roughly ten minutes time.”

He’d meant it as a joke, but he clearly saw the ghost of pain and fear that flitted across Sherlock’s features. “Hey. Hey now. Let’s have none of that Sherlock,” he scolded gently, pulling Sherlock closer to him and reaching up a hand to stroke the side of Sherlock’s neck. “I’m only playing with you. Trying to tell you that I’ve taken a lot of cheek from you over the past year or so and I’m still here. I’m not going anywhere Sherlock. I’m here to stay.” He shook Sherlock gently by the shoulders to emphasize his words, then leaned up and kissed him. The kiss started gently, as a means to sooth Sherlock, but he’d been wanting John to kiss him since the other man had entered the lavatory, and he swiftly deepened the kiss, slipping his tongue into John’s mouth. John responded instantly, accepting Sherlock, letting out a soft moan as the kiss grew more heated. Sherlock felt his insides turn instantly to sparking flames at the feel of John’s mouth on his, slick and hot. He wrapped his arms tightly around John, pulling the other man against his body and moaning at the feeling of it. 

“Perhaps we could continue this conversation in my bed,” Sherlock, suddenly breathless, said against John’s lips, his voice a low rumble. John nodded swiftly, seeming to struggle with speech at the moment, and so the two made their way back to bed. 

They tumbled together onto Sherlock’s mattress, wrapping their limbs around each other and holding each other tight while they returned to kissing. John broke away after a few blissful minutes. “I’d like to take my clothes off, if that’s alright with you,” He said. Sherlock responded by nodding enthusiastically while starting to remove his trousers. Soon, after some awkward negotiation and having kicked their pants off onto the floor, they were both completely naked. Sherlock propped himself up on his side so he could look down at John, who lay on his back, gazing up into Sherlock’s face with such trust and desire that Sherlock found it hard to breath for a moment. 

He let his eyes play slowly over John’s body, taking in the soft patch of light brown chest hair across his pectoral muscles that grew thinner as it trailed down his belly. John’s beautiful cock lay, half hard against his stomach. Sherlock placed his hand flat against John’s belly, just above his cock, and marveled at the way this simple touch caused John to gasp and close his eyes. He loved how he could do things with his hands and mouth that made John come apart. He wanted to experiment, to find out all the ways he could thrill John to the core. He slowly leaned down and placed a soft, wet kiss to hollow of John’s throat and felt the other man’s deep moan vibrate against his lips. 

“Sherlock,” John’s voice was weak and breathy. “Sherlock, please touch me”. 

“With my hands? Or my mouth?” Sherlock was unprepared for the way John reacted to such a simple question. He gasped out loud and thrust his hips up toward Sherlock’s hand. 

“Oh fuck. Both. Either. I just… I just need you. Now.” His demand was half plea, and it made Sherlock feel powerful and desired and weak all at the same time. 

“Very well,” he rumbled and placed another kiss, this one on John’s chest, a few inches above his right nipple. John arched up against Sherlock’s lips and sucked in air through his teeth. Sherlock, drunk on the responsiveness of John’s body to his touch, dared to take one of John’s nipples into his mouth, stroking the hard nub with his tongue before biting it gently with his teeth. 

“Ahh. fuck” John cursed softly, reaching a hand up to grip Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock, emboldened, trailed his kisses lower, onto John’s stomach. He wriggled down the bed as he did so, gripping John’s smaller ribcage in his large, long fingered hands. As he kissed lower and lower, he dragged his hands down John’s sides until they gripped at John’s hips and Sherlock’s kisses had trailed all the way to the warm, soft space on John’s stomach, immediately in front of his now throbbing cock. 

“You’re going to kill me with that mouth of yours” John gasped out, looking down into Sherlock’s eyes with pupils blown wide, cheeks flushed. “Please. Sherlock. Please suck me.”

Sherlock smiled up at John then placed a gentle, barely-there kiss to the soft head of John’s prick. He heard John groan deep in his throat in response, and so he continued kissing his warm, stiff shaft with gentle presses of his lips, working his way from head to root. John was a gasping mess at this point. He was spilling out a long stream of soft moans, punctuated by praise for Sherlock’s mouth. He was gently thrusting up against Sherlock’s kisses, clearly wanting more friction, but Sherlock realized quite suddenly, that torturing John was  _ fun _ . Not quite giving him what he wanted and watching what that did to him. It was thrilling and incredibly arousing to pull those sounds from John’s throat. As if John were a well tuned instrument that Sherlock played with his hands and his lips.

After a few more minutes of this gentle torture though, John had wound both hands in Sherlock’s hair and was tugging gently, trying to pull Sherlock closer, to get more of Sherlock’s mouth on him. He was whining high in his throat, gasping in pleasure. “Sherlock” he gritted out through clenched teeth. “If you don’t suck me properly, I’m going to lose my mind.” 

“Tsk tsk tsk. So impatient” Sherlock mumbled as he nuzzled John’s warm scrotum with the tip of his nose, a move that made a sharp cry escape John’s lips. 

“ _ Sherlock, _ ” John was using the voice he usually did when Sherlock was doing something frustrating, when he wasn’t playing along, and Sherlock felt a deep flush of affection for the other man. He decided he’d tortured John enough at this point and so he slid his lips down over John’s cock, taking him in his mouth to the base in one long swallow. John’s breath exploded outward in a loud huff, then he gasped. His hands tightened in Sherlock’s hair and he cried out softly as Sherlock began sucking him in earnest. 

Just when he thought John was approaching orgasm, the other man forestalled Sherlock’s movements with urgent hands to Sherlock’s face. He pulled Sherlock’s mouth up and off of him and fixed him with eyes filled with heat and wonder. “Not yet. I don’t want to come yet.” He managed to gasp out. “I want you up here with me. I want to come with you. In my hand, stroking each other.”

Sherlock felt his cock, already rock hard from what he’d been doing to John, growing painfully stiffer at the prospect of coming in John’s arms while watching John coming with him. He swiftly clambered up the bed to lay next to John and the two turned on their sides to face one another. Sherlock slid his arm under his lover’s neck to cradle his head. John kissed Sherlock, passionately and deeply, then, with a mischievous grin, he grabbed the bottle of lube from beside them and slicked his hand, then held out the bottle and squeezed a good portion onto the outstretched palm of Sherlock’s free hand. They reached down between their bodies, each grasping the other’s cock at the base and began to slowly stroke one another. 

Sherlock was instantly glad he’d gotten John so close with his blow job, because he could tell he wasn’t far from coming himself. John’s slick hand on him made his insides twist in intense pleasure. He concentrated on stroking John in return, making it good for him. John’s mouth fell open and his eyes fluttered closed as Sherlock worked him with a steady hand. He moaned and lunged forward to capture Sherlock’s mouth in a fierce kiss. Sherlock kissed back with matching intensity, moaning against John’s lips as they continued stroking each other. 

“You’re so good. You feel so good,” John gasped against Sherlock’s open mouth. “You’re going to make me come with that hand of yours.”

“Yes John. Yes. You feel so good too. You feel so right. I… I won’t last much longer.” The heat of the moment was burning away Sherlock’s fears and insecurities, leaving behind it a surety that this, making love with John, pulling him closer and closer to a pleasurable explosion, was what he wanted to do over and over again, for the rest of his life. He used the arm under John’s neck, to pull their foreheads together and stare deeply into John’s eyes. “I want to make you come. I want to see you lose control. Oh god _John_ , I want you so badly.” He increased the speed of his slick hand on John’s cock and the look of pure lust that spilled across John’s features in response nearly had him losing his tenuous control over his impending orgasm. 

“Yes, Sherlock. I’m going to come soon. You’re going to make me come so hard.  _ Oh fuck _ . Keep that up.”

He quickened his strokes on Sherlock’s cock, and Sherlock gasped and let out a harsh cry in response, fucking John’s fist with small thrusts of his hips, chasing his pleasure as it rushed up inside him.

“Oh! Oh John.  _ I love you _ .” The confession came so easily, so smoothly as his orgasm built and built.    
  
“I love you too. Sherlock. I love you so much.” The last of John’s words were swallowed up by a low groan as he began coming in Sherlock’s hands. The sight of John’s eyes tightening below knitted brows, his mouth open and gasping as he came pushed Sherlock over the edge, into a twist of pleasure so intense that he yelled as it bloomed inside his lower belly. He felt himself twitch and pulse in John’s hand as John’s semen, hot and wet spilled out over his pumping fist. The sight and feel of John’s body, John’s face, suffused with pleasure in Sherlock’s arms pushed his own pleasure higher. Sherlock was broken into a thousand glimmering pieces, unable to pull himself back together into the tightly wound machine he’d been for his entire life before coming apart in John’s hand in this very moment. 

  
  


It took a few minutes to come down from the incredible high of coming while watching John come. When he could think rationally again, Sherlock grabbed a fistful of sheets in his free hand and used them to wipe up the delightful mess they’d made, and then gathered John into his arms and held him tight. 

“It gets easier doesn’t it,” John mumbled into Sherlock’s shoulder, while Sherlock traced the contours of John’s spine with gentle fingertips. 

“What does?” he asked, confused.

John leaned back and looked up at him with eyes like pools of dark water. “Saying I love you,” he replied, smiling a soft smile.

Sherlock smiled back, feeling himself being pulled closer by the magnetic look in John’s love drunk eyes. He kissed John softly on the lips, then the cheeks, then closed each one of John’s eyes briefly with a kiss to his eyelids as well. “Yes,” He replied. “It does get easier.”

“You have to practice though, Sherlock. Without practice, you’ll get rusty.” John’s smile turned mischievous. 

“I love you, John,” Sherlock replied, feeling the shiver of fear through his belly at saying those words out loud again, but resolutely ignoring it for the pleasure of the way they sounded coming out of his mouth, and the joy they brought to John’s face. “I love you,” he repeated, and kissed John again. John kissed back, sighing against Sherlock’s mouth. 

“I love you too you insufferable man. I hope you believe me when I say I’m not going anywhere, that I’m here to stay.” He reached out with his hand and carded his fingers gently through Sherlock’s hair. “Either way, I’ll keep saying it, and keep coming back to you until you  _ do _ believe it.” 

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and squeezed him so tightly that the other man grunted softly in protest. “Thank you, John,.” he said with feeling.

“For what?” John asked, words muffled by his face being buried in Sherlock’s neck. 

“For waiting. For being patient. For giving me the time and space to open up and let you in. Thank you.”

“No problem,” John replied cheekily. “I’d have waited longer, but I’m glad I didn’t have to.”

Sherlock pulled him close again and John wriggled a bit to get comfortable in his arms, nuzzling his face in the crook of Sherlock’s neck again and sighing happily. Eventually, they both drifted off to sleep.

  
  


_________________________________________________________________________

  
  


It took a few weeks, but eventually, Sherlock grew to believe those words that John had spoken that first night they’d made love. That John was there to stay. 

They had their first real fight a few days later, over some silly detail of a case that Sherlock had snapped at John over. John had snarked back and Sherlock had gotten very prickly. Then John had made light of Sherlock’s facial expression, gently poking fun of the way his mouth was set into such a grim line, and Sherlock had felt himself melt and loosen up. He’d apologized and John had accepted his apology. And then they’d kissed. 

“See?” John had said, pulling back from Sherlock’s lips, flushed and a bit breathless, like he always seemed to be after they kissed. “We snapped at each other and I’m still here.” 

“Indeed you are.” Sherlock sounded casual, but inside, he was experiencing some rather strong emotions. Awe and disbelief. Joy. He  _ had _ snapped hadn’t he? He’d said something insensitive, and John had snapped right back at him, and he’d… apologized. And John was kissing him now. As if it hadn’t happened at all. Deep inside Sherlock’s heart and mind, a new pattern was emerging. A new awareness. That they could have a spat now and then, that Sherlock could say something obnoxious and John wouldn’t run away. 

This didn’t mean he felt more comfortable around bickering with John. It didn’t mean he’d start taking John for granted. It only meant that although snapping at him once in a while was inevitable, that he wasn’t going to risk losing the love of his life every time it happened. Sherlock had dared to step out of his own personal darkness, into the light of love, and… nothing bad had transpired. No arrows of pain and loss had come raining down on him from above. He could trust (or start to build trust) that John would stay by his side. 

He grinned happily and pulled John to him more tightly. “What do you have on for the rest of the evening?” he asked, giving John a smoldering look.

“Nothing I couldn’t heartlessly cancel at a moment’s notice to take you to bed” John replied with a lopsided grin. 

“Good.” Sherlock mumbled, lowering his head to kiss John softly. “Shall we?”

“Yes Sherlock.” John replied. “We shall” 


End file.
